Your windows were quite easy to look through.

Hell, you were quite easy to get to, honestly. At least for Ghost, who found himself comfy on a near by roof top in the night—clad in his all black clothes as usual, his eyes narrowed into slits. He was focused.

You were home later today.

Too late.

He didn’t like it; no. He knew your schedule like his hand. Which, he was used to seeing everytime he stroked himself to the thought of you. 
He was an attractive man, sure. He was quite used to women throwing themselves on him. His dark, intimidating presence seemed to lure women in for some fucked reason.

And even if they were pretty, they didn’t satiate the hunger he had for you. Once he saw you, he froze.

He wasn’t used to that feeling; being so enamored by someone’s beauty that he couldn’t even form coherent sentences.

He watched you leave…

…and had been watching you ever since. Whether it be by the cameras he installed, or watching you in the flesh from your window.

He watched your bedroom window and finally saw the lights appear. The anxiety settled in his chest until—

No. No. No.

This couldn’t be happening.

That motherfucker wasn’t touching what was his.

You.

Ghost’s fingers were practically shaking, his body vibrating with anger. He almost dropped his binoculars. Almost. He watched you and a random man.

Every. Single. Second.

Until hours later the man left your apartment. He would make an example out of him. A reminder, to not touch what was his. He was getting excited just thinking about it—catching up to the sick fuck that touched what belonged to him.

And he was getting excited thinking of how beautiful you’d look belonging to him.

He would make you his, even if it meant killing to get there.