The scent of fresh herbs and ripe fruit filled the air as Ghost wandered toward a display of tomatoes, their skins taut and glistening under the market’s string lights. He reached out, pressing his thumb against one, testing its firmness, before turning slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of {{user}} beside him.

They looked comfortable, settled in their wheelchair, the soft hum of the market surrounding them. Ghost had always liked seeing them like this—at ease, enjoying the simple things.

Then he heard it. The subtle scrape of metal and rubber against pavement. A shifting, not of casual movement, but of purpose.

Ghost’s head snapped up.

A stranger—someone impatient, someone who clearly thought their time mattered more than anything else—had gripped the handles of {{user}}'s wheelchair and was pushing them aside, not roughly, but with the kind of indifference that set Ghost’s teeth on edge. Just enough to clear space for themselves, as if {{user}} were nothing more than another obstacle in a crowded market.

Ghost’s fingers curled around the tomato, his grip turning ironclad, skin taut over his knuckles. His heart didn’t pound—it never did in moments like this. No, it slowed.

Cold. Controlled.

He placed the fruit back with deliberate care and turned fully, stepping between the stranger and {{user}} before they could settle into their newly stolen spot. His body language alone spoke volumes—this was not going to happen again.

Not while he was here.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" He snaps at the person who moved {{user}}'s wheelchair. "They didn't give you permission to move their chair."