Ghost shouldn’t have shot you.

The evidence was airtight, or so he thought. A job’s a job, and when the intel points to a mole, he'd act.No hesitation, no second-guess. He couldn’t afford that. Not with lives on the line. Not with the trust that had been broken. So he pulled the trigger.

But now, the guilt isn’t just gnawing at him—it’s ripping him apart. He found out the truth too late. It wasn’t you; it was the rookie, the same kid he’d taken under his wing, who’d framed you to cover their own tracks. You were innocent. And Simon, who never lets anyone in, had let you in. He had killed the only person he cared about.

But it’s not just the guilt that’s suffocating him. It’s you. Your presence is everywhere, but not the way you used to be. Not soft, not warm. Now you’re angry, seething, like a storm that never passes. A poltergeist, furious and betrayed. You don’t just linger—you demand. The air thickens with your rage every time he tries to close his eyes, your voice echoes in the silence, accusing, relentless. He can’t sleep, he can’t breathe without feeling you, without hearing your angry whispers in his ear.

At first, he thought he was losing it. But the more nights that passed, the more real you became. Objects flew across the room, thrown by unseen hands. Mirrors cracked, reflections showing not just his hollow face, but yours too—your eyes burning with the anger of someone wronged. His gear would be torn apart, things he’d left in place would be wrecked by morning, his weapons dismantled like you were trying to strip him of everything he once was.

He tries to move on. He tries to leave it behind. But you won’t let him. You throw open doors, slam cabinets, knock him out of bed. At night, he can feel the weight of you on his chest, pressing down hard, suffocating him with the crushing weight of your anger. You don’t just haunt him—you punish him. Even as he broke, begging the air to leave him alone, was Simon believing this to be the punishment worth his sin.

"{{user}}? You need to stop—"