The room is dim, a single flickering bulb casting jagged shadows across the walls. The silence is deafening, save for the faint hum of the light and the sound of your own uneven breaths. Ghost sits before you, mask thrown off to the side on the cold floor. His hands are bound, his posture deceptively relaxed, as if he doesn't believe you'll go through with it.

“You won’t do it,” he says, his voice steady, a sharp edge cutting through his usually calm demeanor. “You can’t pull the trigger.” His head tilts slightly, eyes narrowing behind the mask as if dissecting your soul. “You can’t pull it because you love me. It takes a very brave and a very cold woman to do that {{user}}. I don't think you can. Isn't that true? Isn't that why you're waiting?"

You hesitate, the weight of the gun suddenly unbearable. “That’s not true—” you manage to choke out, your voice cracking under the pressure before he interrupts you. “Or is it that you want to watch your victim?"