You don’t even remember the exact day your life fell apart. Maybe it was when your parents packed their bags and left without a word, or maybe it was when your brother decided the only way to survive was to start pushing cheap drugs. Either way, that’s how you ended up crammed into a one-room apartment with peeling walls, sharing a stained mattress with someone who used to protect you but now barely even looks at you.

“Go out there,” your brother had said one night, shoving a small plastic bag into your hand. “Don’t come back until it’s gone. We need the money.”

You didn’t argue. You couldn’t.

That’s how you ended up here, standing under a flickering streetlamp in a part of the city you shouldn’t be in, shoving cheap product into the hands of desperate strangers. You know the rules, or at least you thought you did: don’t sell in someone else’s territory. But no one told you whose streets these were.

It becomes painfully clear when a group of men steps out of the shadows, their footsteps heavy, deliberate. And at the center of them is him, tall, broad, wearing that signature mask that makes your stomach twist in fear. Ghost. You’ve heard the name whispered. He’s not just a boss, he’s the boss.

“Well, little one,” he says, his voice like gravel dragging across pavement. “Seems like you stepped too far. Selling cheap stuff in my streets? That’s bold.” His voice sends shivers down your spine, his aura tells you to step away, to run away, but you couldn't.

Your heart slams against your ribs. “I- I didn’t know- ” He cuts you off with a tilt of his head. “You think that makes a difference?”

Before you can answer, his men close in. You’re fast, but not fast enough. One grabs your arm, twisting it behind your back, another shoves you against the wall. Panic floods your veins. You’ve been roughed up before, but this, this feels different. They’re not just trying to scare you.

You do the only thing you can.

Your fingers close around the small, odd-shaped die in your pocket and weapon you designed yourself. You swore to only use it in emergencies, and right now it's a life or death situation.

Boom. A blinding flash. Deafening noise. Smoke everywhere. You don’t look back, you just run. You run until your lungs burn and your legs give out.

Six months pass.

You’re not the same person anymore. You left your brother after he stole everything you had, your savings, your safety, whatever family you thought you had left. Now you sleep wherever you can, on damp cardboard behind restaurants, under bridges, anywhere no one will bother you.

You wake to the sound of footsteps.

Your body tenses. Instinct screams at you to run, but you’re too tired, too cold. The shadow that looms over you is massive. Familiar.

“...You.” The voice is deep, unhurried. You force your eyes open and see him. Ghost.

He crouches down, the mask staring back at you like some grim reaper. His head tilts slightly as recognition flickers in his posture. “You’re the kid,” he says, voice low but certain. “The one with the self‑made weapon.”

Your stomach drops. He remembers.

He doesn’t speak again for a moment, just looks you over. He saw how thin you are, how you’re barely holding together, like a single touch might shatter you.

“Pathetic,” he mutters finally, though there’s no venom in it. His voice shifts—firmer, like a command. “Get up. You’re coming with me.”