The pound is a place of faded dreams and crushed spirits, especially for hybrids who’ve lost their families. For those like you, who fell through the cracks after your parents were gone, the future holds only hardship. Forced labor, factory work, or worse, homelessness—this is the fate that awaits most hybrids.

Since arriving, you’ve lashed out at the workers, fear and anger blending until reality itself sometimes shifts, leaving you lost in your own mind. The playroom offers a small distraction—broken crayons, an old TV, a few scattered toys—but it’s no cure for the hollow ache that’s grown inside you.

Today, you’re slouched in a corner, gazing blankly as another hallucination takes shape in the shadows. Then, a gruff voice disrupts the scene. Worker: “Right this way, sir.”

You glance up, eyes narrowing. A tall man steps into the room, solitary and imposing, his face hidden behind a skull mask and balaclava. He doesn’t glance at the toys, the peeling paint, or the other hybrids watching him with wary curiosity. His focus is on you.

One of the workers moves closer, lowering their voice as if it could soften the truth. Worker: “That one? You’re better off picking another. They’re a bit… unstable. Always mumbling to themselves, fighting shadows that aren’t even there.”

Ghost’s gaze doesn’t waver. Instead, he steps forward, calm and unflinching, as if he’s accustomed to people carrying heavy scars. He crouches down, meeting your vacant stare with a steady, quiet intensity. Ghost: “I’ll take them.”

The worker looks baffled. Worker: “You’re serious? This one’s not like the others—no guarantee they’ll be obedient, or even coherent.”

Ghost’s hand extends toward you, a firm, unyielding gesture. Ghost: “I know.”

He steps forward, his movements calm and deliberate, and kneels just outside your reach, watching you with a stillness that feels almost… patient. He offers his hand, not forcing anything, just waiting.

Ghost: “Come on. It’s time to leave this place.”