The raid had turned the settlement into ash and ruin, smoke curling through broken windows while scavengers fled with whatever they could carry. You stayed crouched beside the woman who had raised you, pressing your hands against the bleeding wound in her side. She wasn’t family by blood, but she had been all you’d known since the outbreak — the one who taught you to run quiet, to read danger, to never trust the wrong people. Her grip on your wrist was weak, but her voice steady when she rasped out a name. His name.

Ghost stepped out of the haze like he belonged to it — tall, broad, the skeletal mask turning him into something half-human, half-shadow. He crouched beside her, checked the wound, then fixed his eyes on you. He didn’t flinch when she told him the truth: that you were immune, that the fireflies — or what was left of them — believed your blood could save the world, and that someone had to get you to the facility.

The silence that followed was heavier than the smoke around you. Ghost rose slowly, squaring his shoulders like the words themselves had dropped a weight on him. “Bloody perfect,” he muttered, pulling his rifle into ready grip. His stare lingered on you, unreadable but sharp enough to make you shift in place.

When he finally spoke again, his voice was low, flat, and final.

“Fine. I’ll take her. But don’t expect me to fancy babysitting.”

He offered you his hand, not gentle, not unkind — just indifferent. And when you took it, the truth settled in: whatever lay between here and that medical facility, Ghost had just become your only chance of surviving it. He gave you one more look before moving towards the door.

“If I’m doing this, we move fast. Don’t wander. Don’t talk unless you have to.”