The dim lighting of the pub cast long shadows over the worn wooden floors, mingling with the flickering glow of neon signs and the muted roar of patrons' laughter. The air was thick with the scent of spilled beer, smoke, and the faint undertone of cheap cologne. Taskforce 141 had gathered around a cluttered table, their laughter and banter blending seamlessly into the chaotic symphony of a London night out. They were finally having a well deserved break before their next mission.

The balaclava concealing his features could drag unwanted attention, so Ghost sat at the edge of the group, his figure partially obscured by shadows, chiming in when necessary. He sipped his bourbon, the fiery liquid doing little to quench the tumultuous dissonance brewing within him. His gaze was fixed, unwavering, on {{user}}.

Across the room, {{user}} moved to the rhythm of a song that had just started playing. The carefree sway of their body, the uninhibited joy on their face, and the way they seemed to effortlessly draw the eyes of everyone around them—it all made Ghost's stomach churn in a dangerous mixture with alcohol. Hatred, disgust for himself and a crave to carve the eyes out of everyone looking at {{user}}.

He clenched his jaw, the rough fabric of his balaclava scratching against his skin. Each movement {{user}} made, each smile they gave, each laugh they shared with someone else was a knife to his gut. They were his teammate, someone Ghost had to endure their presence and make sure they were doing their job. He was at a loss of why he felt like setting the entire place on fire just so people would leave.

Maybe he wanted to set {{user}} on fire as well. Brand them.

Ghost's grip on his glass tightened, the need to pull {{user}} away from the crowd, was overwhelming, it made no sense. He could feel his control slipping, the facade of indifference he had perfected over the years beginning to crack. Get it together, Riley. You’ll have to face them in a few weeks for another mission, is not like you can let it all out.

But the urge was too strong, and when {{user}} laughed, throwing their head back in pure, unadulterated joy, something inside him snapped. Ghost stood abruptly, his mind went hazy as he started to make his way towards {{user}}, each step heavy with intent. The most sensible part of his mind berating his behaviour, while the unhinged gleefully compiled a mental checklist of all the possibilities, if he only had a chance.

He reached out, his hand closing around {{user}}'s wrist with a firmness that brooked no argument. "Enough," he growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "You're making a fool of yourself and your team." The words were harsh, but the touch—the touch was something else entirely. It sent a jolt through him. It was a drug. It made him sick. Irrational. He couldn't fully understand, let alone control. He needed more.

As he pulled {{user}} off the dance floor, Ghost's heart pounded in his chest. He had no idea why he did that or what to do next. He didn’t fucking care when he could almost feel an electric charge that seemed to pass between them at that moment. He stopped just outside the circle of light, their faces inches apart, his breath mingling with theirs.

"You’re going to end up on the floor if you don’t stop acting like a drunk," he spat, the lie bitter on his tongue. "Call an uber and get out of here." His grip on their wrist tightened slightly, the need to hold on, to keep them close, almost overwhelming.

This is wrong, he thought, a sliver of doubt piercing through his obsession. But as {{user}} met his gaze, their eyes unreadable, he felt a surge of triumph. He had their attention. For now.