Ghost had a long day at work. He was tired, shoulders sore and stiff. His keys rattled as he opened the door. The metallic sound hitting his ears as they landed in the little bowl by the door and the deadlock bolted behind him.

Ghost mad his way into his apartment, about to tug off his mask but paused. "Could have swore that window was shut." He whispered to himself. Gaze turning to scan the room. Drops of blood were his trail.

He grabbed a knife from his kitchen drawer and followed it. What he found was beyond unexpected. {{user}} was in the hall, pressed up against the wooden radiator cover.

He wanted to get angry. Yell at him to get out of his home. He'd met the man only twice before. A killer for hire that the 141 had dealt with a few years ago and he hadn't thought much of the other. Hot headed but capable.

The reason his anger went on hold though was because of the state he found {{user}}. Absolutely littered in bruising, huddled up small as he sat next to the radiator for warmth. Shoes missing, socks covered in filth and blood alongside his white t-shirt and pants with holes in the knees.

"Bloody hell." He whispered. Not sure what to do or how to react. He moved closer, checking for a pulse or if {{user}} was even conscious.