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𝔎𝔦𝔫𝔡𝔫𝔢𝔰𝔰 𝔥𝔞𝔰 𝔱𝔢𝔢𝔱𝔥

Dark! Simon 'Ghost' Riley x fem. reader

Part: 2/?

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Synopsis: Your neighbor, Mr. Riley, is cold, quiet and impossible to read. He helps out a few times—carrying heavy boxes, fixing things—but never sticks around long enough for a 'thank you' that he doesn't even seem to want. Every conversation ends in silence, every interaction feels wrong.

Then his face appears on the news. He's not just unfriendly —he's a wanted fugitive, linked to multiple murders and armed robberies for which he wore a skull mask to hide his identity.

Shaken but relieved he's gone, you try to move on...until the news break that he has escaped.

!MDNI!

cw: SLOW BURN, reader lives alone and is kinda lonely, reader lives in a shitty neighborhood with a high crime rate, Simon seems like a dick (he kinda is, but also not really), mention and slight description of strangulation, criminal! TF141, kidnapping, captivity, restraining, mention of self-harm/suicide (not descriptive), description of a panic attack, criminal! Simons backstory (altered to fit the story), AU, heavy focus on reader interacting with Simon

Tags will be added as the story continues.

wc: 11,2k

˚₊‧⁺⋆♱ see the end for author's notes ˚₊‧⁺⋆♱

The next day, you managed to keep your mind off your criminal neighbor while at work.

Everyone talked about 'Ghost' but you didn't mention he lived across the hall, deciding that telling anyone would do more harm than good—you don't want to think about him and don't want to draw any attention towards yourself in connection with him.

Later that day, after work, even before you're within a hundred feet of the building the apartment complex feels different.

There's a pair of patrol cars parked out front while a few more cars than usual are parked there as well, their headlights flashing gently through the slush-gray daylight the late and cloudy afternoon provides.

The usual quiet of the street—that everyone uses to stay low—has been replaced by the low crackle of radios, the hum of officers talking into walkies and people in uniforms walking in and out of the building.

You slow your pace, clutching your bag and umbrella a little tighter as you approach.

Two uniformed officers stand in front of the complex entrance and one of them steps in front of you to block you from entering before you could get close enough to slip past.

''Sorry, this building is off limits to the public. Residents only.'' he says, his hand still stretched out to keep you at a distance.

''I do live here.'' you blink.

The officer, a tall man with ashaved head and clipboard in hand, narrows his eyes slightly.

''What unit?'' he asks, voice more gruff now—he obviously doesn't believe you.

''3B.''

He checks the clipboard, his eyes skimming over the paper.

He clicks his tongue, almost in disappointment, before his eyes land back on you with a cold skepticism.

''Doesn't say anything here about a resident in 3B.''

You pause taken aback, breath caught for a moment in confusion.

''What do you mean? I've lived here for months. I pay rent, I have mail, I-'' the second officer cuts in, tone flat.

''Do you have your ID with you?''

You dig through your bag with fingers numb from the cold, your hands shake lightly as you search hurriedly through your bag.

After a few moments you pull out your license, then your apartment key and hold both up like they might prove something.

The officers don't move, only share a glance between each other as if they're agreeing on something.

The first man doesn't even take your ID from your hand, he just looks at you like you're trying to get past a velvet rope into some place you don't belong.

You open your mouth, wanting to suggest they try your key on your apartment to confirm both are yours, but another voice cuts in from a window on the first floor.

''Oh for god's sake—she lives here!''

Your head turns into the direction the voice is coming from, recognizing the voice even before you spot the ginger dyed hair.

Mrs. Allen is leaning over the windowsill of her living room that faces the street, looking at you and the two officers that won't let you in.

''She's 3B, third floor, across from the maniacs' apartment. She has lived there for what, two or three months now?'' she looks at you so you can confirm.

You nod, swallow hard but glad she's helping you out.

Mrs. Allen huffs as she directs her gaze back to the officers.

''She's not one of them, if that's what you're worried about. The poor girl is working herself half to death in that office so she doesn't have time to commit any crimes and probably doesn't even own black clothes—at least I never saw her wear what those companions wore.'' she says, disdain evident in her voice.

The second officer sighs and speaks into his radio and after a long, awkward beat he nods once and gestures toward the front door.

''We're going to need to ask you a few questions before you go up.'' he says and you nod, still gripping your ID.

You mouth a silent 'Thank you' in Mrs. Allen's direction before you follow the officers inside, but she only waves you off.

Inside the foyer, the air feels tight.

There are more cops inside and some wear plain clothes, others wear uniforms.

Some of them speak with neighbors, others glance at clipboards or notebooks and some others vanish upstairs.

The two officers pull you aside near the front stairwell.

''Have you had any contact with Simon Riley in the last two weeks?'' one asks, his notepad already open and a pen in his other hand.

You hesitate, still looking around to take the scene in—everything looks and feels strange, unreal almost.

''No, not since maybe a month ago. He's been gone for a few days or weeks, I don't know—I hadn't seen him in a while.'' you say, finally redirecting your gaze back onto the two officers in front of you.

''Did he ever mention anyone visiting? Names? Did you hear voices from his unit?'' the other officer asks as his colleague writes down your response and the question.

''No. He didn't really...talk, ever.'' you say, shaking your head.

The other officer looks up from his notepad, eyes narrowed.

''You lived across from him and you didn't hear anything?'' he questions confused and in disbelief.

You shake your head once more, the exhaustion from today settling uncomfortably in your body.

''No, nothing. I didn't even know his first name until last night.'' you confirm.

They go quiet for a moment as the officer jots everything down with a raised eyebrow, then they ask more questions—fast and clipped, just a little too sharp as if you're a suspect too that was brought in for questioning.

Did he ever give you anything? Did he ever seem paranoid or aggressive?

Did you ever see him with any weapons or anything unusual?

Did you notice any unusual smells? Did you see if he ever brought someone home and if you did, what did that person look like?

You answer everything honestly, everything is a 'no.'

The whole time you feel the weight of guilt coiling tighter around your throat—not because you've done anything wrong, but because you didn't see it coming.

Because you didn't notice a killer living six feet across from you.

Eventually, they let you go—the building has already grown quieter with most of the other officers gone.

You climb the stairs slower than usual, your legs feel heavier and the building somehow smaller.

When you reach the third floor, both apartment doors are still shut.

The only indication that something is wrong is a paper glued with tape onto Mr. Riley's door.

There are no officers coming in and out of his flat, none positioned in front of it—the door is just...closed.

Like nothing has ever happened, like he might walk out of it again tomorrow—and even though you know he won't, you check your lock twice anyway.

꧁ ୧‿ ⊰ ♱ ⊱‿୨꧂

The building doesn't go back to normal after the police leave, not for you at least.

The buzz lingers, the glances last a little longer when you pass someone in the stairwell.

Mrs. Allen, who once loved to talk, now only nods stiffly at you and pulls her cardigan tighter around her chest whenever you encounter her at her apartment door.

You had thanked her for convincing the two officers to let you through when you met her in the hallway two days later, but she had only nodded once with a faux smile.

Conversations in the hall end mid-sentence when you walk by.

Some neighbors are quieter while others are louder—in all the wrong ways.

They glance at you, whisper to each other the moment they think you can't hear them anymore while their eyes stab into your back.

You try to shake it off.

You remind yourself that you didn't know him, not really, and that you therefore don't have to mind any rumors going around the building.

But the truth is, you don't feel the same anymore.

Not in this place, not in your own apartment.

You keep the windows locked now, keep the blinds closed during the day and only leave them open for a few hours once the sun has set or the wheater is particularly bad.

You check the door three times before bed every night instead of two.

You even start leaving a small light on, aren't even sure why you do that.

And when someone walks down the hallway at night, even if it's only a neighbor dragging their trash to the chute, your whole body tenses—shoulders locking up like they're waiting for a blow that never comes.

You tell yourself it's not paranoia, it's just...awareness.

You're allowed to be aware.

Three weeks later, after the officers first refused to let you in, you get a knock on your door just after noon on a saturday.

You're in sweatpants, hair unbrushed, a bowl of half-eaten and late breakfast on the counter.

The knock is sharp, not aggressive but purposeful—three taps, evenly spaced.

You don't get up to check the peephole right away, some part of you hesitates.

Despite the feeling you tell yourself is awareness having thinned out into something lighter, you haven't quiet managed to shake it off completely yet.

You still look around yourself more than you used to, your pace quicker when you're outside.

Eventually, after a few moments, you press your eye to the glass.

Three men in matching blue work shirts stand outside.

One of them's holding a clipboard, the other two are hauling a large cardboard box up the stairs.

A cylinder sticks out from one end, long and heavy.

Copper piping, a valve—a water heater.

You open the door cautiously, still half-expecting them to say the wrong apartment number.

The man with the clipboard gives you a smile, his lips barely visible under his well trimmed beard.

"3B?"

You nod slowly.

"Got a work order here to replace the water heater."

Your eyebrows lift.

"Really?"

He flips a page on his clipboard and squints.

"Yup. Whole building's been due for upgrades apparently. Yours just got bumped up in the queue, saturday slot. We'll be quick."

You step back after a moment, letting them pass—stunned but not questioning it out loud.

You'd emailed the landlord about the heater three times without getting a response and now, suddenly, here they are.

You glance toward your laptop on the table where your inbox still shows nothing but ads and already read work related emails.

No heads-up, no scheduling, no confirmation—again.

You hadn't gotten any of that for the lock change either though, so you guess your landlord just isn't the type to let you know anything beforehand.

The workers don't ask for anything more than access to the closet behind your bathroom door.

One, with a mohawk, unscrews panels.

Another, with close-cropped dark hair, clears the old tank.

The third, the one with the clipboard, talks in low tones to the other two to give them directions after he looked around with his eyes for a moment—you don't think much of it.

Perhaps Mr. Levington asked him if there is anything else in your apartment that needs obvious fixing, perhaps they're acquaintances.

They're efficient, professional, but you still can't relax.

You don't know if it's the quiet way they move, the fact that they didn't knock louder or if it's maybe just that everything lately feels like it might mean more than it does.

You hover in the kitchen, arms crossed, watching without meaning to.

"So, what job do you work?" the one with the mohawk asks after a while, a strong scottish accent in his voice.

He asks casually, offhand, like it's part of the job.

"Uhm, in a office for a company." you answer after a moment, momentarily taken aback by the sudden question.

He doesn't respond, just goes back to connecting the piping.

"You live alone?" the other one asks.

"Kyle." the man with the clipboard cuts in with a warning tone before you even get the chance to reply.

You don't know if you're being polite by not asking more questions or stupid.

Eventually, they finish—it takes just under forty minutes.

The man with the clipboard signs off with a scratchy pen and hands you a carbon copy of a form that doesn't even have your name on it, just your unit number 3B.

"Hot water in an hour or so." he says.

"Let it run a few minutes the first time, should work fine."

You nod with a small 'Thanks', fingers already closing the door as he turns away.

Once they're gone you lock the door then check if it locked three times.

You check the new heater next.

It looks...fine—new and clean.

There's no reason to worry.

You tell yourself that, over and over again.

That night, you finally take a hot shower without the water going cold.

You let it run longer than you need to before you wrap yourself in a towel and breathe out steam as if it means something.

Still, when you lie down in bed hours later, the tension in your spine won't ease.

You listen to the hum of the heater, the creak of the ceiling, the occasional step above.

You tell yourself there's nothing to be afraid of and still you can't seem to be able to fall asleep for a long, long time.

But eventually, you do.

Your mind exhausting itself into quietness at making itself reel with thoughts of everything that could happen, no matter the likeliness.

Eventually your breathing slows and your thoughts stop chasing shadows.

Sleep pulls you under, the way it always does—quiet, reluctant but certain.

꧁ ୧‿ ⊰ ♱ ⊱‿୨꧂

You tell yourself the building's just old.

You've lived here long enough to know the sounds by heart—the way the door to your apartment slightly creeks when you slip in and out, the thump from upstairs when the neighbor drops something heavy (which is often), the occasional groan of the plumbing like it's working through something.

It's all normal, familiar.

But lately, you can't help noticing that it's a little...off.

The plumbing sounds louder, closer, like it's moved behind a thinner wall.

The quiet between sounds stretches just a little too long.

You shrug it off most of the time—it's not paranoia, it's just being aware.

After everything that has happened as of late, of course you'd be a little jumpy—that's what anyone would say.

You lived across from a cold blooded killer after all.

That's what you say, even when you're alone—especially when you're alone.

The mail still comes late most days.

One time, you find an envelope half-pushed into your box like someone lost interest halfway through.

No return address, no stamp, just an old utility bill envelope repurposed that's empty inside.

You toss it into the recycling and tell yourself it was probably a prank.

Maybe someone drunk, maybe a bored neighbor or a teenager doing it to prove themselves in front of their friends but getting cold feet.

You don't think about it again until later that night when you realize the envelope smelled faintly of cigarette smoke.

You think of Mrs. Allen, but she's been refusing to leave her apartment for almost two weeks now.

She said she's just not doing well physically and needs rest but she still invites Mrs. Leon and a few other residents into her apartment for some gossip.

The hallways have been a little quieter since she retreated into her apartment.

One night, a few days after the empty envelope in your mailbox, your hallway light doesn't even flicker.

It just doesn't turn on at all—not only your apartment seems to fall apart, apparently it's the whole building that does.

You fumble for your keys in the dark, using the light from your phone.

Your lock sticks a little, it hasn't done that ever since it got changed.

Inside, everything's where you left it.

Still, you look around just a second longer than you need to before shutting the door.

That same weekend you wake up later than usual.

Sunlight stretches across the floor in a clean rectangle and for a brief moment, everything feels normal again—soft and harmless.

You make coffee, water the plant by your window, read the headlines on your phone and avoid any article that mentions names you've come to recognize too well.

You're fine, you're okay.

You still have hot water.

You're sleeping through the night more often now and even the weight in your chest is a little lighter these days.

The building is settling, and so are you.

It's only when you open the door to get your groceries later that afternoon that you notice something small and strange.

Your welcome mat looks like someone kicked it.

It's not laying neatly in front of your apartment door like it used to, it looks like someone dragged it with their shoe away from your door just for a moment—just a couple of inches.

You sigh and shake your head, figuring you must've been the one to accidentally move it when you walked out to go to the grocery store.

After all, you haven't paid much attention to these kinds of small details lately since your mind is always occupied with caution.

It's draining you, you can feel it every day and every night.

Workdays stretch endlessly, the small forced conversations between you and your coworkers that you only participate in for politeness become unbearable and less.

Your body aches everyday after work, even before you reach your apartment.

Your shoulders are always tense, eyelids always heavy.

Exhaustion clinges to you like gum that won't let go.

It has been a month since Mr. Riley was captured and imprisoned.

You tell yourself that he's still locked away, hours away from you in a high security prison in Bolton.

There is absolutely no reason for you to keep this habit of caution and awareness, the only thing that it does is draining you.

The shower you take that night is hotter than usual, your skin steaming when you step out—a attempt to wash away the fatigue and paranoia you've been refusing to acknowledge.

That night, you let the sound of the building lull you to sleep.

It takes you another few days of iron will until you finally manage to look around less.

You start watching the news again, although half-heartedly and, in the beginning, with caution.

'Ghost' has long since become a background blur in everyone else's lives since there has been no movement in his case and therefore there is nothing new to report on regarding him.

He seemingly only seems to exists in your mind and this building, the whisper of his name still sweeping through the apartment complex every now and then.

You remember the whispers between Mrs. Allen and other residents.

'How could she not have known?'

'She must've noticed something, she lives across from him!'

'Even I saw strange things, how come she didn't?'

You had never payed any mind to the rumors of the building and so decided to just ignore the ones about you too.

You figure that if you say something, you'd only make it worse and all you want is to live a quiet life—especially in a neighborhood like this.

Life keeps being the same colorless routine after another week when you completely laid off your paranoia.

One Wednesday a week later, you even throw away your own electric bill.

It takes you a minute to realize that you're the one who has to pay it and you fish it out of the trash can reluctantly.

That's how detached everything feels in the life you never meant to live, like you're watching someone else's life from a foggy distance...until one night the news get an unexpected flair.

You're sitting on your couch, mindlessly shoving your dinner into your mouth.

The anchor's voice is steady and bored until her tone suddenly changes, snapping you out of your almost distant state.

''-escaped late this evening during the preparation of a transfer to a maximum-security facility. Authorities believe the man identified as Simon Riley, known to the public as 'Ghost', may have had inside help. Prison staff are being questioned and an internal investigation is underway.''

The screen flashes with his photo. and it's familiar.

It's the same paparazzi photo they showed from right after his arrest, the one where he stares into the camera with empty eyes as he exits a police van.

Your heart doesn't exactly starts racing, but it moves—like a hand slowly pressing down on your chest right above your heart.

The news anchor keeps talking, her face distorted into a serious expression as she talks about tip hotlines and increased police patrols since 'Ghost's' whereabouts are currently unknown—but her voice seems quieter, almost drowning out beneath the roar of your own thoughts.

What does that mean for you?

Will he come back here, into this neighborhood and apartment complex?

There was no report or news of police finding anything inside his apartment when they were here the day after his arrest.

Does that mean they didn't find anything and now Mr. Riley will come to collect whatever he was forced to leave behind?

Despite it only being rumors, there must be a pinch of truth in them—perhaps Mrs. Allen is right in her assumption that he has something hidden under his bed.

Maybe not literally, but maybe he has things hidden in his apartment that the police didn't find.

None of the money from his previous heists was found and the police has no clue where it might be.

And maybe, just maybe, he was annoyed with your politeness.

You sit up slowly, the TV still flickering with video snippets of flashing police lights and an aerial view of the prison yard Ghost escaped from.

Something cold settles in your bones—it's not outright terror but that kind of uneasy awareness again.

This time though, you can't ignore the fear that clings to your body like another layer of skin.

Everything suddenly feels smaller, like the walls are slowly moving towards you and trapping you in.

Your apartment seems quieter than usual as well, the old windows don't rattle with every gust of autumn wind and the annoying neighbor from above isn't playing his music loudly for the entire complex to hear like usual.

The shadows in the corners your flimsy overhead lamp never seems to be able to reach look thicker than usual too, like someone could easily hide from your view in them.

You shake your head.

'That's ridiculous, you're being paranoid.' you tell yourself.

You force yourself to sleep that night, checking every window if it's locked several times and checking your apartment door for the same as well.

As you lay awake in bed for a while, unable to fall asleep, you keep telling yourself that you're just being paranoid and dramatic.

꧁ ୧‿ ⊰ ♱ ⊱‿୨꧂

You go to work the next morning like nothing's happened, like you didn't struggle to fall asleep.

You go about your routine as you always do for the next few days, forcing normalcy.

You make and drink some coffee, avoid eye contact with anyone that passes you by on your way to work and swipe your badge at the office door.

The printer jams as usual, the fluorescent lights buzz, your coworkers mumble amongst themselves here and there.

The world hasn't noticed anything's changed, but you have.

No one knows you're being a notch more aware of your surroundings, not even you.

You answer phone calls, type and send emails, nod politely through meetings you only follow half-heartedly.

Everything looks the same, feels the same but seems still somehow off—like a slightly wrong note in a familiar song.

The news keep cycling through headlines filled with Ghost.

No leads, no sightings, just speculations.

Analysts in expensive suits talk about prison security and systemic failure.

One reporter calls him a phantom with a pulse, a literal ghost.

Another reporter says he might already be dead in a ditch somewhere since the nights are cold and he only wore the thin prison uniform—the studio laughs nervously like that makes it better, or true.

You try to ignore the news, opting to eat lunch at your desk instead of the break room, staring down on the screen of your PC.

Somehow your approach of ignoring the matter works and the criminal, the murderer, who lived across from you and now escaped prison doesn't really cross your mind anymore for the rest of the day.

Not even when a tall, broad stranger stands uncomfortably close behind you in the subway—the hood of his hoodie pulled so far down into his face that you can't make out any feature besides his defined jawline.

He doesn't get off when you do so you ignore the entire thing, it's not like he's the first creep you ever met on the subway anyway.

Once home, you don't even check the headlines the news app of your phone tries to force into your face.

You just sit down on your couch with the lights still on.

You stare at your blank TV screen, your reflection faint and flickering.

Your fingers twitch for a moment, contemplating grabbing the remote and turning on the TV that you always turn on before you go to sleep—more out of habit to soothe the silence than for entertainment.

In the end you don't, you just sit there for a few moments before the air in your apartment suddenly feels hot and you decide to open a window.

The cold air rushing in through the open window of your living room is a welcoming breeze on your face, making you feel grounded in reality.

Why would he come for you, risk his freedom and life by coming to Manchester?

You just can't imagine that he would, not rationally at least.

After a few minutes you close the window again, walking into your bedroom and laying down in bed.

The quiet hums louder than it used to but you don't mind it and you fall asleep faster than you did ever ever since you got to know that your murderer of a neighbor is on the run again.

That nights sleep is the first truly refreshing one you got ever since then as well.

꧁ ୧‿ ⊰ ♱ ⊱‿୨꧂

When your alarm clock rings the next morning, you're awake faster and even out the door a few minutes earlier than usual.

The slightly heavy feeling in your chest is completely gone and your mood is lifted, finally having been able to break free from your paranoid thoughts.

It has days since he escaped—if he wanted to get to you, he would've already.

But he didn't and you're convinced he wouldn't come to Manchester of all places in the UK, the big city just too much of a risk for him.

Your tasks at work stay the same as always and you still do them with barely enough effort to complete them, but they don't bother you even nearly as much as they usually do.

Even the rain that pours down on your way home isn't enough to take away the feeling of lightness in your chest.

You simply pull out your umbrella from your bag and open it before holding it over your head as you close in on your apartment complex.

The apartment looks exactly the same as it did when you left this morning.

Your empty mug still sits in the sink, though it looks just a notch differently placed than you think you placed it this morning—which doesn't make sense.

When you walk into your bedroom to change, your sheets are still neatly laying on top of your mattress, though there are wrinkles in the fabric of your blanket that make you wonder why you didn't smooth them out.

The feeling of wrongness that is bubbling right underneath your skin gets quickly stilled with you telling yourself that you were in a different mood when you left this morning so these kinds of subtle thing are easy to be missed by you.

While you were in a good and easy going mood before leaving your apartment, you're tired now.

The news today were all about Ghost as well.

You tried to not listen in on the TV in the break room but your desk in the front of the office is right next to the door, making it impossible to not hear at least a little.

There are still no leads, no sightings, only anonymous reports of sightings that all turned out to be false.

The police seems to become more desperate now, asking the public to keep an eye out for him and be safe with more pressure.

The way home wasn't any better.

The wind made the weather feel even colder, the cold and moisture making the streets more slippery.

You don't have the energy to hop into the shower right away so you throw on your warmest, most baggy clothes to warm yourself up with instead in the meantime.

While your dinner is still cooling down, you make yourself a cup of hot tea to accompany you while you eat.

The steam admitting gently from the mug between your hands warms your nose as you take a slow sip, careful not to burn your tongue.

You settle onto the couch with a blanket around your shoulders and your plate balanced on your lap, the overhead lamps from your kitchen and hallway still not able to reach some corners.

You keep the TV off, the silence feels better than the voices of strangers repeating the same theories and spinning the same possibilities like broken records.

Still, the names Ghost and Simon Riley echo in your mind nonetheless—like whispers that refuses to leave.

But his name, or names, repeating themselves in your mind don't strike you with fear anymore or with paranoia.

Coming to Manchester is a risk that you're sure he is well aware of, a risk he wouldn't be keen to take.

You eat slowly, staring at nothing in particular as you let the heat of your meal and tea warm you up, but with your warm clothes the heat quickly grows a little too warm for your liking.

You finish your meal before you stand up to open the window for some fresh, cold air.

When your hands find the handle, you realize that the window is already unlocked.

You don't think too much of it, guess that you forgot to lock it yesterday when you let a gust of wind sweep through your apartment.

The routine is as grounding as always—plate in the sink, tea mug rinsed, a glance at your phone with nothing new waiting.

Everything is exactly how it should be and despite this grounding routine boring you, it's comforting.

You grab your sleepwear from your bedroom and everything you need for a nice, hot shower with it.

The bathroom lights flicker on with a buzz, humming as you let the shower get hot while you undress and the small mirror hanging above the sink is fogging up from the steam.

By the time you step into the shower, the world outside doesn't seem to matter anymore and you let the hot water wash away the dirt and exhaustion of the day.

Once you're satisfied with your shower and as the water begins to become colder, you turn the shower off.

Only a few more drops of water fall out of the shower head, quickly following the rest of the water down the drain.

The floor creaks gently as you move around inside the bathroom, drying yourself off and getting dressed again.

You follow through with your usual bedtime routine before you open the door and step into the hallway.

The cool floor of the hallway isn't the only thing cold though, your entire apartment feels cooler than it should.

Your gaze automatically falls on the window in the living room and the cold explains itself—you forgot to close the window.

You pad towards it, close and lock it before you continue to your bedroom with your hair still damp from the shower you just took.

The bedroom door is open, it always is.

You step inside, stretching as you do so and blink at the dimness of the room.

You don't turn the big light on, you almost never do—it's always too bright for comfort, especially when you plan on going to sleep which you are right now.

Blindly you walk over to your bed, sit on it as your hands look for your phone since you put it down on top of your blanket before you vanished inside the bathroom—but you can't seem to find it now.

Your hands continue to look for it for a few more moments before you give up to find it just by feeling for it.

With a small sigh your fingers find the switch of your bedside lamp in the dark as you stand up to be able to look down on your bed and find your phone.

The light turns on with a click and you immediately notice how bad the lamp actually works—it is barely able to illuminate past your pillows laying untouched at the top of your bed.

When you still don't find your phone in the area you thought you put it down at, you guess that you must've forgotten it in the living room.

You seem to be forgetful these days.

As you turn around to the bedroom door, something suddenly...stalls—just for a second, like a mood suddenly switching.

Your eyebrows furrow and your head tilts slightly at the sudden shift in the air, at this small thing that you suddenly notice.

The vanity chair—it's never left pulled out that far, not even on the rare occasions that you actually use it and it hasn't been used today or even this week.

Your gaze wanders up until your eyes find something in a light color that shouldn't be there.

It's a mask, a way too familiar one.

You have seen it almost constantly for the past days whenever any TV showed the news.

The mask is ingrained in your brain and so is the person wearing it, the crimes the person committed.

Your criminal justice teacher would give you a one-hour lecture on how awful it is to downgrade people to the crimes they committed without knowing them, but all the armed robberies and murders he committed are all you can think about.

He knows hot to handle a gun, know how to use it, know how to kill with or without any weapons—you're sure of it.

Mr. Riley—or Ghost, you don't know anymore—is just sitting there, broad and still.

You can't see him well in the darkness, the only thing you can clearly make out in the dim light your bedside lamp grants you is his mask but as your eyes begin adjusting to the darkness, you think you can see him sitting there with one arm resting loosely around his hip while the other is draped over one knee.

He doesn't move, neither do you—it already feels like minutes that you've been just staring at him but you know that it could only be a second or two.

You don't scream despite your lips being parted.

It's not because you're brave, but because all the air inside your lungs seems to have left you.

You used to think that all those protagonists in the dark romance books your co-worker would tell you about were stupid for not screaming.

You used to think that screaming is the first instinct in this kind of situation...but you can't.

You're frozen, chest locked heavy in place and your brain is oddly quiet despite the fact that you're in danger.

The sweat forming on your skin and the way your heart beats violently against your chest from the inside are the only reminder that you are not dead yet, aside from these two aspects your body feels completely numb.

And then, as if someone slapped you across the face to make you concentrate, every single fiber of your body suddenly feels like it's on fire.

Your mind screams at you to run and your fingers twitch before you just do, following the command your brain sends to your muscles.

Blood rushes in your ears and you barely register the chair of your vanity screeching against the old hardwood floor before the open door suddenly closes until it is barely a few inches open—a big, gloved hand gripping the wood.

Your breath hitches as you realize that your path is blocked, the only escape route now impossible to take.

You don't even manage to stumble back before a deep voice almost makes the walls of your small bedroom shake.

''Ye didn't scream.'' Ghost states, Manchester accent thick as he almost gently closes your bedroom door with a soft click while towering over you with ease.

You stare at him, at his mask, eyes wide in panic and fear.

''Sit down.'' he then adds, low, calm and real.

Your stomach drops, your voice catches in your dry throat.

You don't move, don't even blink as you stare at the holes in his skull mask where his eyes must be—the slate-brown eyes you've become all too familiar with since his arrest.

''Sit. Down.'' Ghost repeats, firmer and more commanding.

Your hands tremble and your legs shake, you don't feel your body move as it steps backwards until the back of your knees hit the frame of your bed.

Your knees bend automatically until you're sitting on top of your mattress while your widened eyes never leave his as they finally adjust fully to the dark.

Ghosts hand lowers from the door, his arms crossed over his chest as he takes another step to the side—standing right in front of your bedroom door.

''Ah don't trust a runner.'' he comments nonchalant, dryly—his broad shoulders almost as wide as the old door frame.

It's something you had already noticed but not thought much of when he knocked on your apartment door two months ago before fixing your bookshelf for you.

You only keep staring at him because you don't know what you could possibly say.

Ghost doesn't speak again either, he just stares back at you and the quiet feels unbearable.

The hum in your ears, the sound of your own blood rushing through your limbs, the sound of your heart pumping blood and adrenaline through every single vain in your body—it's so uncomfortably loud that it makes you want to rip your own hair out.

And yet you feel like you're dreaming, like your body hasn't quiet caught up to the fact that this is real—that he is real.

Simon Riley, your criminal neighbor 'Ghost', is standing in your tiny apartment in your tiny bedroom not far from the center of Manchester.

You're not watching him on the news behind a screen or from a safe distance and he isn't just Mr. Riley from a few months ago anymore either—he is a murderer.

He's here, close enough to touch, close enough to hurt or kill you—perhaps both.

You swallow, trying to rid your throat of the dryness and lump in it before opening your mouth but you close it again without uttering a word.

Ghost watches you carefully, like he's waiting to see what you'll do—as if he's a predator watching its prey, and you can't help but feel like that it is exactly the roles he's given you two.

He watches you to see if you'll scream, if you'll try to run again or if you'll cry or maybe even attack him.

But you just sit there, fear gripping your body so tightly that you can't move.

Your voice has collapsed in on itself, swallowed by the thudding panic in your chest and you feel it blooming sharp beneath your rips as it rises into your throat.

Ghosts feet don't move, only his head does—it tilts, silently letting you know that he is still waiting to see what you'll do and that he's still watching you closely.

He just stands there, arms still crossed over his chest as he stares at you from in front of the closed door like it's normal.

Like this is his space, as if your bedroom belongs to him, as if he's always been here and your mind suddenly begins to work again.

You think about your coffee mug in the sink that looked just enough out of place to be noticeable, the wrinkles in the fabric of your sheets even though you would've smoothed them out, the feeling you had yesterday that someone was in your apartment while you were gone.

You try to swallow the dryness in your throat away again, every breath feels like you're pulling it filtered through a cotton ball that soaks every moisture out of your mouth and throat.

Your eyes begin flickering around the room for anything that could get you out of this situation, your mind finally on as high of an alert as the rest of your body.

Your eyes lock on your bedroom window for a moment.

No, too dangerous.

The window is locked, by the time your hands find the lock he'd already have your neck snapped in two.

For a split second you contemplate just jumping through the glass but you figure that the glass is too thick for you to actually be able to break it, and you live on the third floor which would take every chance of escape from you because you're sure you wouldn't be unharmed once you hit the ground.

Your eyes keep looking around until they land on your vanity where something suddenly flashes quietly.

Your phone is laying there, screen facing down.

He took it, probably while you took your shower because you're certain you put your phone on your bed and that he wasn't here—in your bedroom—before you went to the bathroom.

Now your phone is far out of your reach, you'd have to reach past him to get it or crawl all the way to the foot of your bed to take it from your vanity—you're certain he'd be much faster to grab your phone than you.

When your eyes land back on him, he's still just watching you.

You're sure he caught you looking around your bedroom in search of an escape.

He doesn't say anything and his silence is more unbearable than any word he could speak.

'This is torture.' you think.

He is doing this on purpose.

He's trying to break your mind apart, make you lose your sanity before he kills you.

Ghost moves slowly, grabbing the back of the chair from your vanity.

He turns it so it faces you, pushing it closer to where you sit on your bed before he sits down.

The chair squeaks against the floor as he carelessly drags it along and it's a small sound but it punches through the silence like a gunshot.

Along with the quick speed in which he spins the chair and sits down on it close to you, you flinch—visibly, and you're sure he notices.

He lets his arms hang loosely over the back of the chair as he straddles it, his eyes that are now illuminated by your bedside lamps narrow slightly.

You can feel your heartbeat in your palms now, your legs tight with adrenaline that has nowhere to go.

You think about how quiet the building is tonight and wonder how he even managed to get in here without being noticed by anyone.

You think of Mrs. Allen, certain she would've noticed because nothing seems to slip past her without her noticing...but Mrs. Allen isn't in the building right now.

By the whispers you heard in the hallway, she is out of town for a few days.

Almost instinctively, you scoot away from him as you realize just how close he is—putting some distance back between the two of you by moving closer to the head of your bed.

He lets you, eyes only following your movement but he doesn't say anything or moves himself.

The fact that he doesn't move is somehow worse than if he did.

''H-how did you get in here..?'' you whisper, voice low, hoarse and it doesn't sound like yours.

It sounds like something left out in the cold for too long—thin, barely there.

''Y' left yer livin' room window open, two days in a row.'' Ghost states simply, clicking his tongue a few times in a disapproving manner.

You feel numb, your face twisting into an expression you don't feel and Ghost let's out an almost amused huff of air through his nose at it.

''Yer easy to watch.'' he says and leans forward over the back of the chair even more.

You should scream.

You should take a deep breath that feels like your lungs are about to burst due to the pressure before you let out such a blood-curdling scream that every person in Manchester comes running to check out what's going on—but you can't.

The breath you take instead is barely a hitch, just enough to keep your brain somewhat functioning and a cold sensation in the shape of a drop rolls down your spine—you don't know if it's sweat or a drop of water parting from your still damp hair and rolling down your back.

You notice that there's a strange kind of restraint in the way he sits, his muscles look tensed like a coiled spring that isn't moving because it doesn't yet have to.

You tense your own muscles, ready to jump up and run whenever the opportunity presents itself.

He's not afraid, not of you—why would he?

Your former neighbor is much taller than you and his criminal history made him physically strong, every muscle in his body trained.

But he's also not afraid of this, of being caught.

He doesn't tie you up, doesn't completely silence you and he must know that that's a risk.

Even if he stopped you from screaming all the air out of your lungs, your scream would still echo through the eerily silent apartment complex and alert someone until he manages to react and make you go quiet.

But he's calm, not using the force he could to bend you to his will completely and that makes you wonder what he even wants.

His words echo in your mind.

'You're easy to watch.'

He planned this, he's been here before—in your apartment.

Perhaps the feeling you had yesterday that someone was in your home while you were gone really wasn't just a feeling but a fact—the mug in the sink slightly more tilted, the wrinkles in your sheet you noticed after coming home today.

You can't help but repeat those facts in your mind, cursing yourself out because you should've known something was wrong.

You blink, a strand of your hair falling into your face over your left eye and minimizing your vision—you want to tug it away, move it back behind your ear, but you're too afraid to raise your hand.

Too afraid that any sudden movement might change something.

By the strand of your hair in your vision you can see your heartbeat pulsing, shaking your body ever so slightly while your hands still tremble.

''What do you want..?'' you finally manage to squeeze out, wobbly and thin like you're about to cry even though you're not.

You slowly scoot away from him even further and he straightens, just slightly.

He doesn't stand up, doesn't advance, just moves enough to show you that he notices—that he's paying attention.

You freeze again, stopping mid-movement.

This time, you're sure your body has locked entirely as if it knows something your mind hasn't quiet caught up with yet.

That if you move again, something will happen.

He speaks, but not to answer your question.

''Yer scared.'' he says—not loud or threatening, just calm.

Your breath shudders in your lungs.

Of course you're scared, of course you are.

But the way he says it makes it sound like he's commenting on the weather—like he's watching the shape of your fear, cataloging it, memorizing it.

You don't answer, you can't.

He watches you for a long moment before speaking again.

''Y' should be.''

You feel like you can't breathe, your chest being crushed under something so heavy that it might break your rips and make them puncture your lungs.

Your legs feel like they belong to someone else—someone slower, someone stuck.

Your mouth is dry, too dry, and your ears ring.

The only thing you feel is the tension in your muscles, your beating heart and white, hot panic.

Ghost leans forwards again with a straighter back this time, his chest pressing against the back of the chair.

The shadow cast on his face shifts just enough for you to see more of his eyes—not completely, not enough to memorize them face to face but enough to confirm what you already knew.

It's him.

Your former neighbor Mr. Simon Riley, Ghost.

Not the story on the news, not the man behind prison glass, not a name whispered like a warning—he's real and he's here.

And despite a part of your brain being aware that this is real, another part isn't—still sure that this isn't happening.

He says something but the words he speaks are already out of your mind before you can register them.

The only thing you can register is that his voice is low, gravelly, the same way he talked when he was still just your neighbor.

Soft but not gentle, the cadence and accent are unmistakable—Manchester through and through.

It doesn't make him sound any more human.

If anything, it only makes him sound closer and realer and more dangerous.

Ghost sighs, probably annoyed with you continuously not being able to answer him.

He stands up and suddenly something inside of you just snaps.

Perhaps it's the fight or flight instinct taking control of your body, your brain certain you're going to die if you don't do something.

You jump up, your conscious screaming at you that it's a bad idea, but it's already too late to just sit back down and wait for something to happen because sooner or later something will—you're sure of it.

You're not even fully up right by the time your feet already move, making you run towards your bedroom door again since it's your only possible escape.

The chair from your vanity that Ghost dragged into the middle of the room falls over, landing on the floor with a loud thud—you don't flinch, don't look back even though you register it.

You reach your hands out to rip the door open as soon as you can when you're suddenly pulled back, your throat closing.

Automatically you try to gasp, but you can't.

Two big hands have a hold on your throat, closing completely around your entire neck.

The fabric of the gloves scratches your skin, the hands inside the gloves stopping you from being able to breath.

Your own hands reach for the ones around your neck, desperately grabbing them to get them off.

Before you know it, your body gets slammed against your bedroom door and trapped there as Ghost presses his own body against yours.

''Can't trust a runner.'' he reuses his words from earlier in a growl, low and dangerous as his hands around your neck tighten even more.

You hit and scratch, dig your nails into his gloved hands as you claw at them but his grip doesn't loosen.

You begin to feel dizzy as your vision becomes spotty and your movements become even more desperate and raggy.

''Ah didn't wanna have to do this, but ye left me no choice.'' he almost mumbles, pressing himself even harder against you from behind—seemingly unimpressed by your attempts to get his hands off your neck.

Your vision blacks out at the edges, black spots blooming in bursts of static across your eyes.

The desperate scream you try to let out isn't even a whimper as it squeezes past your lips.

You're vaguely aware of your feet kicking against the floor, your lungs heaving against the chokehold as they beg for air that won't come.

Your fingers dig into his gloves, hard and frantic but his grip still doesn't budge.

It's not even cruel, not unhinged.

It's measured and controlled like he's done this before which you bet he probably has so considering his crimes.

He knows exactly how long he can hold you like this without killing you if he doesn't yet want you to die.

The realization sends a new wave of terror through you.

Your body convulses against his, the instinct to survive screaming louder than anything else now—louder than logic, louder than disbelief.

You twist, fight, but he has you pinned.

You can feel the heat of him against your back, the solid weight of muscle and tension behind the mask while your front is pressed flush against the cold wood of your bedroom door.

You can't move, you can't breathe.

You can faintly hear him murmuring soft words, almost gently as if trying to calm you down while he strangles you.

But you can't hear the words, can't make sense of them with the pounding in your skull drowning out everything—your panic, your thoughts, your body.

Your fingers scrape desperately at anything you can reach of him, but your limbs are losing strength.

You're sinking, your mind dimming and your body threatening to shut down.

Then, somewhere behind the panic, a horrible certainty settles in—you're not getting out of this.

Your body jerks one last time, instinct trying to survive even as the rest of you begins to shut down.

Ghost leans in, close enough that the warmth of his face beneath the mask radiates all the way to your cheek.

"Should've stayed still 'nd listen." he mutters, almost like he's disappointed.

And then your vision goes black.

You don't even feel him release his grip on your neck the moment your body goes limp in his hands.

All you can feel before passing out fully, is your feet lifting off the ground before he readjusts his grip on your body to throw you over his shoulder.

꧁ ୧‿ ⊰ ♱ ⊱‿୨꧂

Darkness gives way to cold, then pain.

You come by slowly, too slowly, like your body is reluctant to rejoin the world.

Your limbs feel heavy, almost numb, as if they've been soaked in concrete.

There's a sharp ache in your skull and your throat burns—it's raw, scraped and tight.

You try to move only to realize that you can't.

Your arms are pinned behind your back, wrists bound tightly.

Your legs too—bend at the knees, ankles tied together.

You panic instantly, a deep and primal terror surging through you.

You're lying on your side, crammed awkwardly across a narrow surface that shifts slightly beneath you.

It feels like leather, vinyl.

The rumble of an engine vibrates under your body, steady and low.

You're in a car, the backseat of one to be exact.

You try to twist to see where, who, but your body won't cooperate.

Your neck is stiff, muscles screaming.

Your throat throbs.

Every breath drags through your nose like gravel.

Panic quickly turns to nausea.

You blink hard, vision swimming, the world lurching past outside the car window you can catch a glimpse of in long smears of grey and orange—headlights and streetlamps flickering by too fast to follow.

Then you hear him.

Up front, behind the wheel humming in a single note for just a moment—a slow, tuneless sound.

Not cheerful, just absent like a man lost in thought.

Your blood turns to ice.

You try to scream for help, but all that comes out is a choked whimper—muffled and pathetic.

You jerk against the bindings but they don't give.

He starts another hum but stops before the sound can fully vibrate in his throat.

The silence that follows is worse.

A moment later, Ghost speaks.

"Awake then, are ya?"

You freeze.

His eyes flick up to the rearview mirror—you can't see them clearly, but you know he's looking at you.

"Thought y'were out longer." he mutters, like it's nothing.

"Ye fought back pretty hard."

You whimper again, this time at the memory of you fighting for your life and loosing—seemingly without doing even a little damage.

Fear aches through your chest like something broken.

You don't stand a single chance against him.

He doesn't sound angry, doesn't sound much of anything.

That flat, steady tone is worse than shouting would be—it makes you uncertain of his next move.

"Don't try anything. Ah didn't kill you back there, don't make me change my mind."

You shudder involuntarily, your entire body trembling against the tight restraints.

Your fingers are already going numb from the tight bindings but Ghost continues driving like it's nothing—no urgency, no panic.

Just the steady hum of the tires on wet asphalt and the occasional sound of the turn signal ticking.

Like he's just running errands, like you're just luggage.

Your body is screaming with pain and confusion.

Your lungs feel tight, your throat too raw to swallow properly, your legs cramping from the unnatural position.

Tears gather hot in your eyes, spilling helplessly across your cheek as the car takes another slow turn.

You don't know where he's taking you, don't know what he wants, but every second you spend trapped in the dark of that backseat is worse than the last.

You're practically alone with your thoughts and your hazy brain forces all kinds of awful, gruesome scenarios to play on repeat as to what he will do to you next.

And all of that because you were an idiot to think you were safe.

You should've done it like Mrs. Allen did—get out of town while you still can and stay away while the situation resolves itself.

The city fades behind you, swallowed by the blur of sodium lights and damp roads.

You try to track time by counting traffic lights, curves in the road, turns—anything, but you can't keep your thoughts straight.

You're cold.

Not from the air, but from fear—from the restraints digging into your wrists and ankles, from the way your heart thunders without release.

Your breath keeps catching in your nose, the pain in your throat as you breathe too thick and your throat seizes painfully every time you try to swallow.

You shift slightly, a simple twitch of your hip as you try to even out the pressure on your limbs.

That tiny motion sends a fresh wave of pain lancing through your neck due to the pressure on your spine moving brings along.

Your body hasn't forgotten what he did to you.

The sound of the tires against the road is rhythmic, hypnotic and paired with the muffled buzz of the heater humming low in the vents it almost feels like the kind of drive that should be peaceful—almost.

Ghost doesn't speak, not for a long while.

You think you hear another faint hum again once—not a song, just noise.

It vanishes again beneath the turn signal ticking lazily as he changes lanes.

It's unbearable, this silence.

Your mind fills the gaps with possibilities you don't want to consider.

Is he taking you somewhere isolated? A warehouse? A ditch?

Or worse, is this all some game you don't yet know the rules of?

Does he want to make sure your body is never found, denying your family closure over your disappearance?

Then his voice cuts through the dark, low and flat.

"Stop fidgetin'. Yer not gonna get out of those."

You freeze again immediately, didn't even notice that you kept moving while thinking of all the reasons of why he hasn't killed you yet.

You've been completely and unintentionally tuning out the pain that moving causes, not only all around the probably bruised skin of your neck but the restraints binding your limps together too.

He doesn't turn around, just keeps driving with one hand resting lazily on the steering wheel like this is the most normal thing in the world.

Your body trembles.

The bindings are too tight, your joints aching, the strain on your spine unbearable now.

But you make no sound, don't dare to.

A few more long moments pass before he speaks again, more muttered this time—almost to himself.

"Christ. Yer bleedin'."

You jolt, eyes wide and confused.

You hadn't noticed.

It's not much, just a sharp sting on your wrists—the plastic or rope cutting in where you must've thrashed too hard.

You feel it now, now that he's pointed it out, a warm stickiness pooling at the base of your palms.

There's a soft shift in the front seat.

A moment later, the car speeds up for a few minutes before slowing down again as the soft ticking of the turn signal sounds once more.

He pulls off the road, judging by how quickly the headlights passed just earlier you're probably on a highway.

Panic seizes you again as the car comes to a halt.

'This is it, he's going to kill me here on an empty pull-in in the middle of the night with no one around and discard of my body somewhere it won't ever be discovered.' you think.

But the engine keeps running.

You hear the rustling of fabric before his door opens.

You flinch violently, trying to curl into yourself as if that would make you vanish from his view but the restraints make it near impossible.

The cold air rushes in when the rear door cracks open beside you before Ghost's shape looms over you—a black mass in the dark, barely outlined by the interior light above.

You settle to call him by his alias.

Right now, he isn't your neighbor from a few months ago—he's a criminal who strangled you and is kidnapping you at this very moment.

"Easy. 'm not gonna hurt ye." he mutters, raising one of his hands in a manner-mix of defense and surrender to show you he is not a threat.

Your whole body trembles at the lie.

He crouches beside you.

You can't really see his face, just the glint of his eyes beneath the mask.

You try not to look, scared to see something human in his eyes.

You feel him tugging at your long sleeve before there is a soft ripping sound, cold air hitting the newly exposed skin on your arm—you don't dare to protest, can only squirm ever so slightly.

He presses the torn fabric from your sleeve against your bleeding wrist.

Not hard, just enough to stop the blood spilling out from underneath the restrain around your wrists.

Then he wraps it loosely, tying a knot single-handedly.

"There, tha's better."

You want to scream.

Not from the pain—from the softness, from the care.

It feels worse than cruelty.

He checks your ankle next, then sighs.

"Didn't wanna tie y'like this. Ye fought."

You try to speak—a soundless, garbled question emitting from your dry and sore throat.

Your voice is hoarse and thin, quieter than a whisper and therefore almost impossible to understand.

Your body is screaming for answers, for anything.

Ghost watches you for a second, his eyes narrowed and eyebrows knit together before they relax again.

He leans a little closer.

"No, 'm not tellin' ye where we're goin'. Not yet."

That calm, matter-of-fact tone again—like he's explaining something completely reasonable.

Your eyes burn with tears again in a mixture of pain and the weight of helplessness.

He sighs again, more deeply this time before he stands back up.

He walks out of your field of sight, leaving the door open and you can hear him walk away—his steps becoming quieter until the sound of the running engine drowns them out.

Aside from the rumbling of the engine, everything is completely quiet.

There is no sound of another car passing by the pull-in on the highway, no voices to indicate someone else is taking a break here.

It's just you and him here and that thought is enough to send another wave of panic through you.

You can feel his looming presence before you can see him.

"Drink." he says, his tone commanding and leaving no room for protest before he already presses the top of an open bottle against your lips and squeezes—forcing the liquid past your lips.

To avoid choking, you swallow.

Cold water fills your mouth before running down your throat, making your body convulses.

Your throat hurts as you swallow and you begin to cough as soon as you forced the water down so you can breath.

Ghost pulls the bottle away, watches you struggle silently.

Your coughing only worsens, becoming more violent and painful—quicker.

You can barely take a tiny breath before your body forces another cough and you loose control over it, unable to stop.

"Calm down, breathe through yer nose. Don't pass out again." Ghost suddenly says, his tone low and almost soft.

You begin to feel nauseous as you keep coughing, pain ripping through your sore throat continuously.

He grabs one of your shoulders, turns you from laying on your side to laying on your stomach before grabbing both your shoulders and pulling you up until your head dangles over the edge of the carseat.

Soft, cold wind hits your face as you desperately try to get your coughing under control and take a proper breath—tears filling your eyes.

Ghosts hand finds your back, right between your shoulder blades.

"Breath." he repeats in a more commanding tone, crouching down again.

It takes you another few, painfully long moments before you actually manage to take a deep breath.

Your lungs burn in protest at the cold air filling them, throat throbbing and itching and burning in pain.

He lets you lay there like this for a few more seconds as you stabilize your breathing, head hanging outside the car from over the edge of the backseat.

His hand leaves the spot on your back before finding your shoulder again.

He turns you back on your side before he, almost with care, pushes you back into the car.

Then, without another word, he closes the door and walks calmly back to the driver's seat.

You hear the rustling of fabric again and manage to catch a glimpse of his hand from between the two front seats as he puts something down on the passenger seat—his mask.

He takes it off to drive.

Probably because it is less suspicious as the majority of people only know him with his mask.

The car rumbles into motion once more, the tires sliding back onto the wet road like nothing happened.

The drive continues.

The roads get quieter, darker.

Less streetlight, no more headlights pass you.

You lose count of the turns again, of how long it's been.

Eventually, exhaustion seeps into the edges of your panic.

Your muscles scream for rest and your vision swims again—not from lack of air this time, but from your body giving in.

You're not unconscious, not fully.

You're just limp, like a puppet with the strings cut.

Ghost hums again, barely audible over the tires and the engine—as if he has all the time in the world.

a/n: So uhm, how to we feel

Also, special and great thanks to my amazing beta reader @donttm1ndm3 !! Check out their profile and story Cathexis, it's a Simon Riley x oc <3

(Taglist?): @lunadi1una

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