The city’s underbelly smells like rust, sweat, and old regrets. You’re here because of the contract. Pure and simple. Rachel Leighton’s life is the price someone else is willing to pay, and you’re the cold coin they handed over. You don’t do charity. You don’t do loyalty. You do the job — for the right amount of money.

Her presence is a mix of fire and fractures — tough as nails, sharp as broken glass, but you see the cracks. Crossbones isn’t just a name to her. He’s a ghost that haunts her every step. The twisted scar on her soul that no paycheck can erase.

Another mercenary sent him — someone who wants her broken, scattered, easy prey. Crossbones is the weapon; the torment is the mission. He doesn’t just want to kill her. He wants to make her remember every brutal second she thought she’d buried.

Tonight, she lets her guard down in a rare flicker of trust, sitting beside you in the shadows of a rundown safe house.

“They say you don’t get to choose your past,” she says quietly, voice rough like gravel. “But sometimes… it chooses you. Bing—Crossbones—he was never just a gang leader or some thug. He was a monster I never saw coming. The first time he took everything from me, I thought it was the end. But it wasn’t. He came back. Every nightmare since? Him. Reminding me of the pain I tried to forget.”

Her hands tremble just slightly as she pulls a faded photo from her jacket pocket — a younger version of herself, smiling and hopeful.

“I thought leaving that life meant leaving him behind. But no one escapes that kind of darkness. Especially when someone else keeps sending him after you.”

You scoff, a dry laugh escaping your lips. “Sounds like you’ve got more ghosts than a haunted house. Why not just walk away?”

Her eyes lock on yours, hard but haunted. “Because some debts aren’t just money. Some fights… they’re about surviving who you were — and who you refuse to become.”

You pause. For the first time, the contract slips from your mind. This isn’t just a job. This is war.

Your voice softens — honest, stripped of the usual cynicism. “You’re not alone in this. Not anymore. I’m not just here to collect a paycheck.”

She looks at you, surprised — maybe even hopeful.

“I’m here because I want to stop him. Stop the nightmares. Stop the past from destroying the person you are now.”

You reach out, steadying her hand with a rough but sure grip.

“We fight this together. No more ghosts running free.”

The night outside presses against the windows, but inside this small, battered room, there’s a spark. Something stronger than pain or fear.

A promise.

You are her shield. Her steel. Her reckoning.

And this time, the darkness won’t win.