“you never made it easy,” Ghost muttered, breath ragged as he dragged you through the undergrowth. “Of course not. That’d ruin the fun.”

His grip on your wrist was bruising, like he was afraid you might vanish if he let go. Maybe you would. Hell, maybe you already had.

“One played me like a fookin puppet,” he hissed. “Told me to kneel, crawl, bleed—whatever got you off that day. Cold as ice. Voice like a lullaby made of broken glass.”

He laughed, bitter and breathless.

“The other one? you patched me up after. Whispered sweet nothings while wiping off your sister’s fingerprints. Said you were different.” He spat to the side. “Then wore the same perfume and kissed me the same damn way the next night.”

Ghost stumbled, caught himself. His head was spinning—exhaustion, fury, maybe guilt.

“You never showed up at the same time. Like magic. Or a curse. Only difference was a tiny little mole on the younger one’s hand. That’s it. That was my lifeline.”

He looked down at the hand he was holding—shaking now, smaller than he remembered.

“No time to check,” he said, almost laughing. “Can you believe that? After everything—they gave me one shot to get out. One. And I had to guess.”

He shoved a branch out of the way, eyes flicking back toward the smoke curling up into the dawn sky. “The one I left behind? She’s not getting mercy. They’ll tear her apart just to send me a message.”

Ghost exhaled hard, like he could blow the guilt out of his chest.

“But I saved someone,” he said. “Right? That’s what matters.”

He stopped suddenly, turned to face you.

“{{user}}…Right?”