The cold air bit at your face as you stood in the dimly lit warehouse, arms crossed in frustration. Ghost, standing a few feet away, watched you with a look you couldn’t quite decipher. His skeletal mask glinted faintly in the moonlight streaming through the cracked windows.

“I don’t need you, Ghost,” you said, the words escaping harsher than you intended. “I can handle myself.”

For a moment, his shoulders stiffened, the weight of your admission settling on him like an anchor. You regretted saying it, but it was too late. His voice, low and gravelly, broke the silence. “You think you don’t need me?” Before you could reply, he turned sharply, walking to a metallic table covered in strange vials of glowing, amber-colored liquid. They were remnants of a mission gone sideways—a chemical weapon stolen from the enemy. Ghost had insisted on keeping them, though the team had unanimously agreed they were too dangerous.

“Watch,” he said, pulling a syringe from the table and filling it with the mysterious substance. “Maybe you’ll see how much I matter when I’m not the same man,” he muttered, his voice tight with uncharacteristic vulnerability.

Before you could stop him, he jabbed the syringe into his arm and injected the liquid. It took seconds for the change to begin. He dropped the syringe, clutching his arm as his entire body tensed. His breathing turned ragged, and he fell to one knee. Black veins began to spread from the injection site, crawling up his arm and across his neck, disappearing under his mask. His body convulses on the ground. His eyes snapped up to meet yours, and you stumbled back in shock. The whites of his eyes were gone, replaced by inky blackness. His hands trembled as he looked down at them, the veins now pulsing like liquid. His body twitched as he tried to steady himself. But it was clear he wasn’t in control anymore. The black marks spread further, and a faint, otherworldly glow emanated from his veins. He looked at you, his gaze torn between regret and an unsettling hunger.