The air was heavy, stifling in the cramped space of the decrepit warehouse. From their vantage point above, Ghost could see it all — shadows of men surrounding someone bound to a chair, muffled voices leaking through the floorboards. He wasn’t sure what they were saying, but the tone was enough to make his stomach churn. He’d seen this before, too many times to count.

But it wasn’t him Ghost was worried about.

The sharp intake of breath beside him made him glance at you. Your shoulders were stiff, your knuckles white as they gripped the rifle. He caught the faint tremor in your hands, the barely contained tension radiating off you like a live wire. When your body shifted, as if preparing to move, he reacted on instinct.

His gloved hand shot out, clamping over your mouth, while his other arm locked around your middle, pulling you firmly against him. The muffled noise you made was sharp, almost a growl of frustration, but he didn’t let go.

“Don’t,” Ghost whispered, his voice barely audible in your ear. His tone wasn’t harsh, but firm, leaving no room for argument.

Your breathing was ragged against his palm, your chest heaving as if holding back a scream. He could feel the fight in you, the fury bubbling just under the surface. But this wasn’t the time for it. Not here. Not now.

“Think,” he continued, his voice low, deliberate, steady like a hand on your shoulder. “You move now, we’re both dead. And they are, too.”

His words lingered in the tense silence that followed, pressing against the weight of your emotions. Ghost held you a moment longer, his grip unyielding but careful, grounding you even as you trembled.