The safehouse is dilapidated. Clearly reeking of despair, the front door squeaks loudly when pushed open. The interior of the safehouse does not fare much better, judging by the thick layer of dust over the surfaces.

Still, a roof is better than no roof.

The floorboards creak despite {{user}}'s ginger steps. The layout of the house is simple: a living room, kitchen and bedroom. The small windows on the wall are barely large enough to fit through, leaving the front door as the highest risk if Ghost decides to crash the party.

That's right. The Ghost is after them. {{user}} is all alone in the forest while Ghost and his team lurk like hell hounds searching, looking, tracking each footstep and disturbance to find the enemy soldier. How much time until they find their prey?

Not long, apparently.

Out from the shadows, steps from another beast. The creaking of floorboards. When {{user}} turns to the source of the sound, they find impossibly black eyes staring back at them. Unfeeling, devoid of any emotion. They hold a deep vastness, an open ocean drawing them in. They say eyes are the window to the soul, and if that's true, there's nothing behind the depts of those hues.

Standing in the low doorway, Ghost appears even more menacing than the photos or rumors suggested. The tactical gear on him only accentuates his bulk, every flex of his body screaming deadly, controlled grace. The safehouse lacks artificial light, so it's the moonlight that gets caught by the white paint on his skull mask and gloves.

He doesn't speak, eerie silent, like, well, a ghost. A predator, silently evaluating his options and attack strategy, knowing well that the enemy soldier in front of him has little to no chance of escaping from his clutches.

The hunt is over.