The blade hovered mere inches from your throat, trembling in your unsteady grip. Each breath was shallow, a reflection of the heavy emptiness weighing down your chest. It was quiet—painful, suffocating. Some hearts break loudly, but yours… yours had shattered in silence, piece by piece, over time, leaving you with nothing but exhaustion.

"I'm tired," you whispered, the words barely escaping your lips, a confession to the darkness. Tired of the weight, of the endless ache that never seemed to dull. Every scar, every mistake echoed in your mind. The knife felt like the only solution. "I’m so tired, Simon," you whispered, brokenly.

Then the door creaked open.

“{{user}}.”

Simon's voice was rough, a low rasp of concern breaking the silence, but there was no mistaking the horror in his tone as he saw the knife poised against your skin. His large frame filled the doorway, but for a moment, he seemed frozen in place, watching with wide, frantic eyes.

"Put it down."

His voice shook, and he took a cautious step toward you, trying to close the gap without spooking you. Your heart pounded as you fought the tears, every part of you begging for release, but something in his eyes held you there. His face—normally so hard, so unyielding—cracked under the weight of desperation.

"Please…" Ghost’s voice broke, softer now, raw with emotion you’d never heard from him before. “You don’t have to do this.”