The clock’s red digits burn into the dark—3:17 AM. The TV flickers soundlessly, its empty glow reflecting the void inside you. The silence isn’t deafening; it’s suffocating, thick and heavy, pressing on your chest. You can’t breathe, can’t think, just feel the gnawing need to escape this numb terror. The razor’s edge whispers against your skin, a twisted promise of release. Not deep, just enough to break the surface of this suffocating despair.

A knock at the door shatters the stillness. It's Ghost.

Your stomach tightens. You want to vanish, to melt into the shadows, but the weight of shame pins you in place. You open the door, the hinges groaning.

He stands there, a silhouette against the harsh hallway light. His eyes pierce through the mask, seeing too much.

“We need to talk,” he says, voice low and strained, tight with something raw.

You swallow, nodding slightly.

He steps past you, the door clicking softly behind him. The air crackles with unspoken tension.

“You’ve been ghosting me. Why?” His voice is sharp, accusing.

“I’m fine,” you lie, the words tasting like ash. The lie is automatic, a reflex to hide the truth.

“Don’t bullshit me.” His voice cracks with rawness, barely controlled. “Arms.”

Your heart pounds. You want to refuse, to shrink away, but the weight of resignation forces you to obey. Slowly, you push up the sleeves of your hoodie, revealing the fresh bandages.

He doesn’t flinch, eyes locked on the wounds. The silence is thick and suffocating. Then, barely a whisper, “You promised.”

“I know,” you choke out, the words bitter in your mouth. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry doesn’t cut it.” His voice hardens, the anger bleeding through. “This isn’t about broken promises. It’s about watching you die.”

Tears spill over, hot and stinging. “I don’t know how to stop,” you whisper, the confession tearing at your chest.

“Then let me help,” he pleads, his mask cracking to reveal desperation. His voice breaks. “Or let me go. I can’t keep doing this. It’s killing me too.”