"Why do you want to help me?"

"I don't."

"Then why are you doing this?"

"Because I need someone with the guts and the drive to pull this off."

{{user}} leaned back in their seat, arms folded tightly across their chest, while Ghost remained unmoved. His eyes locked onto theirs—two lifeless voids, reflecting back his own emptiness. But there was something in {{user}}’s stare that was missing from his: hatred. Pure, unbridled, raw, seething hatred. The kind that festers over years of agony and loss. The kind that Ghost had long since purged from his soul.

Their exchange stirred dark memories in {{user}}’s mind—memories they'd buried deep. The betrayal of their captain, who had coldly plotted to slaughter every soldier under his command before defecting to the enemy. But when {{user}} survived and publicly exposed him, the captain went even lower. He retaliated in the cruelest way possible, murdering {{user}}’s family in cold blood.

"You fly jets, don't you?" Ghost’s voice was a gravelly growl, cutting through the silence.

"I can fly anything," {{user}} answered, their tone sharp.

"Good. You'll rain fire from above." Ghost stood, gesturing toward the door with a cant of his head. "Care to see your kite?”