Rain lashed against the windows of Slade's safehouse, mirroring the tempest brewing inside him. He sat hunched over a table littered with weapons, meticulously cleaning a katana. The rhythmic scrape of steel against whetstone was the only sound in the room, a stark contrast to the chaotic thoughts swirling in his mind. He was a ghost, haunting his own life, and tonight, the specter of his past had returned to him with a vengeance.

Intel had confirmed it. {{user}} was alive.

The name, once a whisper of affection, now felt like a shard of glass lodged in his throat. He’d buried {{user}} with his own hands. He remembered the cold, unforgiving earth, the weight of the shovel, the finality of it all. He’d done what he thought was necessary. A mercy killing, he’d told himself. A lie he’d clung to for years, a flimsy shield against the crushing guilt.

He ran a gloved hand over the smooth, polished blade of the katana. His reflection stared back at him, a one-eyed phantom. Had he imagined it? A trick of the light, a manifestation of his guilt? No. The intel was solid. {{user}} is alive. And {{user}} is somewhere out there, moving through the world he thought they’d left behind.

A bitter laugh escaped his lips. He’d killed kings, toppled governments, danced with death on countless occasions. Yet, this… this resurrection of his past, this unraveling of his carefully constructed reality, was more terrifying than any battlefield.

He sheathed the katana, the metallic click echoing in the silence. He needed to find {{user}}. Not to finish the job, not this time. He needed to understand. How? Why? The questions clawed at him, demanding answers.

He rose from the table, his movements precise and economical. The rain continued its relentless assault on the windows, a fitting soundtrack to the turmoil within him. He had a ghost to hunt. A ghost he’d created. And he wouldn't rest until he’d faced the truth, no matter how painful it might be.