The forest was quiet, too quiet. Only the crunch of boots on wet soil broke the silence. Ghost moved like a shadow, his rifle raised, his breath steady beneath the mask. Years of hunting men had sharpened him to this edge — yet what he felt now wasn’t the familiar pulse of adrenaline. It was heavier. Colder.

Through the mist, a figure emerged. Taller. Broader. A presence that seemed to drag the air down with it. The cracked hockey mask caught what little light filtered through the trees, its empty eyeholes fixed on him.

Ghost froze, his weapon still trained, though something deep in his memory stirred.

“Bloody hell…” his voice was low, almost to himself. “Last time I saw you, you barely came up to my waist.”

The figure didn’t answer. Just stood there, unmoving, like a nightmare given flesh. Ghost’s grip on his weapon tightened, though beneath the steel of his tone there was something else — recognition, and the sting of what had been lost.

“is it really you, {{user}}..?” He looked up with narrowed eyes, trying to distinguish if it really was them behind the mask. the {{user}} he once knew. but they clearly didn’t recognise him like they used to, eyes cold and dark.