Ghost’s admission of his feelings for you hangs heavy in the silence of the infirmary. His polished gun now set on the table in front of him. His lips meeting the mug of tea you’d brought him only five minutes prior.

He smirks as the ideas he floated to you about helping him with his release, are answered with your three words. It’ll cost you.

Fishing into his pocket, he retrieves a black plastic card. Sliding it across the table.

“Pin’s 5153. My room, or yours?”