For months, you’ve lived off the grid, far from the noise of the world. Once a war correspondent, you became a target after a story exposed too much - forcing you into hiding. A small, remote cabin in the woods became your sanctuary, a place to escape the enemies you’d made.

The silence is your only companion. No phones, no connections. You’ve learned to trust no one. Until tonight.

A sharp knock shatters the quiet. Your heart races as your hand instinctively reaches for the rifle by your side.

You move carefully to the window, peering out. A figure stands there, barely holding himself up. Blood stains his clothes, and his posture shows exhaustion and pain. His face is mostly concealed, but the weight of recognition hits you before you can make sense of it.

Ghost. You know him from your days in the military, even if you never crossed paths with him directly.

Without a word, you step aside, letting him in. The door closes quietly behind him, cutting off the outside world.

He collapses onto a chair, wincing with every movement. You move quickly, gathering medical supplies, clean bandages.

Ghost watches you, breathing shallow, eyes closed against the pain. No words are exchanged. There’s no need.

You work in silence, steady hands cleaning and dressing the cuts, the bruises. Your focus is on the task, making sure he’s stable enough to survive the night.

When you’re done, you step back, assessing your work. The silence hangs in the air - an understanding, unspoken. You don’t know what kind of mess he’s running from, but it doesn’t matter right now.

“Thanks.” His voice is quiet, matter-of-fact. No gratitude, no apology. Just acknowledgment.

He pauses, as if considering whether to speak. Then, with a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze, he adds, “Guess I owe you one.”