The air in the safehouse was always cold. The concrete held onto it like bone to marrow—dry, sterile, and silent, except for the occasional hum of the generator two floors down.

There were no windows. Just low, yellow lighting that buzzed faintly, casting shadows across metal shelving, unfinished drywall, and that narrow cot he’d dragged into the corner. The space wasn’t meant for comfort. It was meant to be untraceable.

She’d been here for seven days. Maybe eight. He didn’t count them.

She still hadn’t said his name.

Ghost stood at the threshold of her room—what passed for one, anyway—watching her from behind the mask. She didn’t see him yet. She never did, not until he wanted her to.

Her back was to him, curled slightly beneath one of his old field jackets, legs bare, one foot pressed into the mattress like she was bracing even in her sleep.

Even in stillness, she was defiant.

His jaw clenched beneath the mask. That should’ve made this easier. Cleaner.

But it didn’t.

She was supposed to be dead.

That order had come with all the usual silence—verbal only, not written. Ghost knew what Command expected when they whispered a name. He’d done it before. Dozens of times.

But not with her.

He didn’t pull the trigger. He couldn’t. And he didn’t owe anyone an explanation.

Just a body that never turned up.

Instead, he brought her here. Not to protect her. Not even to punish her. To keep her.

The floor creaked under his step, deliberate. He wanted her to wake up knowing he was near. Not from sound, but from presence—from that cold shiver at the back of her neck, that twist in her gut that told her she was being watched.

She stirred. Slowly. Head rising. Breath catching like she’d already been holding it.

He moved closer, boots silent now, like shadow cutting through shadow.

The room smelled like worn canvas, gun oil, and skin. Her skin. She’d started smelling like him. He hadn’t decided how he felt about that yet.

His gloved hand brushed the edge of her collarbone. Not a grab. Not a claim. Just enough to remind her.

She is his.

“Still breathing, are we?” he murmured. His voice was low, stripped of all theatrics. It hit the base of her spine like a warning.

She flinched. Not visibly—but he saw it. Her shoulder tightened. Her breath stuttered.

Good.

He stepped beside her now, crouching just enough to match her eye line. His presence filled the room like smoke.

"They wanted you dead. You know that, yeah?"

Her lips parted, but no words came out. Just breath.

“And maybe you should be. After what you leaked. After the names that came back in pieces."

He watched her face closely. Looking for guilt. Looking for regret.

Found neither.

Found something worse. Something closer to resolve.

His voice dropped even lower, nearly a whisper now.

“But I didn’t kill you, sweetheart. I kept you.”

A beat passed. Her pulse jumped at her throat.

He dragged his thumb slowly over her jaw—delicate, almost reverent.

“You’re not a prisoner. You’re a debt. A problem I chose to carry. And I don’t touch what hasn’t been offered.”

He rose to full height, towering over her now, emotion buried beneath layers of control.

“So hate me. Try to outlast me. Dream of running.”

The edge of a cruel smile touched beneath the mask.

“But this silence between us? It won’t last forever. And when it breaks, you’ll be the one to shatter first.”