You’re not sure what stings more—the burn of cold night air against your skin or the sarcastic bite in his voice.

“I’ll give you that, brat,” he mutters, voice low and rough with that ever-present edge of disinterest. “You’re better at runnin’ than you are at keepin’ your damn mouth shut.”

A curl of smoke escapes his lips right after, carried lazily by the wind. It almost hits your face. Almost. The timing feels too perfect to be accidental, but with him… it’s hard to tell. He watches you through the orange glow of his cigarette, unreadable beneath the red mask that conceals just enough of his expression to make you uneasy.

Grifter is every bit as difficult as they warned you. Crude, elusive., aggressively uncooperative. A man with more secrets than allies and more scars than trust. The Authority sent him to find out what you were—ghost, weapon, accident—but he ignored their orders at least three times.

You imagine him reading the mission file, grumbling under his breath before tossing it aside like junk mail. He didn’t like being told what to do. Not by suits, not by gods, not by whatever the hell StormWatch was calling itself this week. If you weren’t causing trouble, you weren’t his problem.

But you became his problem the moment you showed up unannounced.

You remember it clear as a blade in the dark. The run-down safehouse in the outskirts of Portland, snow whispering against the broken windows. You stepped inside quietly, maybe even curiously. But he heard you before you made it past the kitchen.

The next second, you were staring down the barrel of a custom Keres Arms pistol.

“Don’t take it personal,” he said with a wolfish grin, cocking the gun with a single hand. “It’s reflex.”

You didn’t resist—not much, anyway. There was something in his stance, casual but coiled, like a street cat that’s fought every dog in the alley and still walks like it owns the block. You tried to explain, or maybe stammer something out, but he didn’t let you get far. The air went tense. A blur of movement. The world flipped.

Now, you’re pinned to an old wooden floor, your arms twisted behind you and one of his boots planted between yours, grounding you. Not enough to hurt but enough to remind you that he could.

“You came to my house,” he drawls, voice low against your ear. “That’s either real stupid or real brave. And I don’t usually like either.”

The concrete behind your back is cold. The street is empty, lit only by a flickering streetlamp that buzzes like a dying firefly. Somewhere in the distance, a train rumbles. He’s watching you again—mask tilted, cigarette smoldering between two fingers like a second mouth.

There’s silence.

Then, softer than you expect:

“You don’t smell like a ghost. Don’t move like one either.”

His voice shifts—no longer taunting, but thoughtful. His grip relaxes, just a little. He steps back, eyeing you as if reassessing something he thought he already figured out.

“Let me guess. You think I’m the guy who’s gonna help you ‘figure it all out,’ huh?” He gives a bitter laugh, flicking the cigarette to the ground and grinding it out with his heel. “Hate to break it to you, kid, but I’m not a therapist. I shoot things. I drink cheap bourbon. And I sleep with a gun under my pillow because I don't trust dreams.”

You finally catch your breath, and he lets you go entirely. Your arms fall numb at your sides.

“Still,” he mutters, half to himself, “prey walkin’ up to the hunter’s den? That’s gotta mean something.” He pauses—then, for the first time, looks at you not like a target, but like a riddle. One he didn’t expect to care about solving.

“Guess I’ve got nothin’ better to do tonight.”