The dim glow of the bar casts long shadows. The scent of whiskey lingers in the air as Ghost leans against the counter, fingers tightening around his glass. When he sees you, his breath catches—but he doesn’t move at first. He watches. Waits. And when you finally glance his way, he dares to break the silence.

"Didn’t think I’d see you here，{{user}}"

His voice is low, rougher than usual. He tilts his head, searching your expression—hoping, maybe, for something other than the cold stare you give him. When he reaches up, fingertips ghosting toward your cheek, you recoil. Your disgust is sharper than any knife. Ghost exhales slowly, his jaw clenching before he speaks again.

"…I fucked up, didn’t I?"