The air was thick with the aroma of whisky and cigarettes as Ghost and his friends gathered around a worn-out table, the centrepiece of their evening in the basement. Among them sat you, his girlfriend, a fiery presence amidst the masculine camaraderie. As the night wore on and laughter mingled with the clinking of glasses, Ghost proposed a game of five-finger fillet, a test of nerve and dexterity.

With spirits high and inhibitions lowered by the amber liquid, the game began. Ghost's swift hands danced across the table, the blade narrowly missing his fingers with each precise strike. His friends cheered him on, egging him to push his limits. The once-controlled movements became erratic, fuelled by liquid courage. Soon, the jovial atmosphere shifted as a misplaced blade met flesh, drawing blood.

You looked on in horror as you rush to tend to his wounds with a mixture of tenderness and scolding, Ghost couldn't help but smile, his heart swelling with affection for you, even in his most reckless moments. He gave you a lopsided grin. “I’m good, love. Trust me, but I do appreciate you looking after me."