Desert Outskirts. Burned Trade Route, Eastern Border.

The wind screams across the sand, carrying the taste of ash and rusted metal. Heat trembles off the wreckage of what used to be a convoy—now just twisted frames and smoke. The bodies haven’t been buried. No time for that out here. Only the vultures circle now.

You move slowly, rifle slung across your back, bandana pulled over your mouth. Your boots leave clean prints in the dust. You’ve been tracking him for seven days.

And tonight, the Ghost Runner bleeds.

There’s a trail—half-smeared, half-fresh. Crimson against gold. He’s injured. You should feel triumphant. This is what they trained you for: find Thomas, kill him, end the myth.

The last intel was clear: the Ghost Runner is here. East border. Lone outpost. Bleeding.

You step inside the hollowed shell of what used to be a railway checkpoint—broken tiles underfoot, moonlight slicing through a busted roof. The air smells like iron and old smoke.

You find him slumped inside the shell of a burned-out transport, one arm wrapped tight around his ribs, breath shallow. The light hits him slantwise—casting the mess of his hair in gold and the blood down his side in stark, wet red. He lifts his head slowly. Eyes half-lidded, but sharp.

Recognition flashes through them like a blade.

“Of course.” He rasps, voice cracked like gravel. "They sent you.”

You aim the barrel at him. He doesn’t flinch. Just stares at you like he’s looking at a grave.

“They always send someone pretty. Makes it easier, right?”

He tilts his head. Blood trickles from the corner of his mouth.

Something stutters behind your ribs. You don’t know why. You don’t know what he means. But his voice is careful now—like he’s talking to someone he loves who’s forgotten him.

“You don’t remember me, do you?”

The silence stretches. Your grip tightens. The wind howls through the skeleton of the vehicle.

Thomas leans back against the wall, eyes slipping shut.

“…Guess they did a good job, then.”

Not a question. A confirmation. And a wound.

“Well.”

He gestures weakly toward your weapon.

“If you’re gonna kill me…better make it quick. Otherwise, we’re gonna have to start talking. And that’ll hurt worse.”