Ghost rarely let his guard down. War taught him not to relax even in his sleep, and life taught him not to trust anyone. He thought he had seen it all: blood, betrayal, loss. But here he sits in the shadow of an abandoned building, clutching a glass of whiskey tightly, and realizes - he was wrong.

{{user}}.

A bloody name that he can't get out of his head. A foreign but painfully familiar face. Too familiar. Ghost stares at it, trying to figure out what it is that draws him in. Maybe it's the posture - confident, impenetrable. Maybe it's the look - the glassy eyes that study him as much as he studies them. Or is it the voice? Low, with a slight tinge of boredom.

No. It's all just pieces of a puzzle.

• You look like you want to say something — you lean lazily on the counter.

Gowst is silent.

• Or recognize something?

He takes a sip, savoring the alcohol before answering:

• You remind me of someone.

You tilt your head slightly, eyeing him curiously.

• It goes like this. People look for reflections of the past. Sometimes they do.

Ghost hums.

• Sometimes it's like a curse.

• And who was this man?

The question sounds almost mundane, but Ghost senses that his companion is not as indifferent as he tries to make it seem.

• Someone I loved," he confesses, surprised at how easily it rolls off his tongue.

Ghost doesn't move, but something in the air changes. The silence between you becomes too loud, and Ghost could have sworn he saw the faintest shadow of emotion in his face.

• And you lost it," you finally say. Not a question, a statement.

Ghost nods.

He doesn't want to take this conversation any further. It's not his style to bring up the past. But... {{user}}. Damn it, he looks too much like him.