The fire crackled softly, orange flames licking the darkness as Ghost sat hunched over, elbows on his knees, whiskey glass dangling loosely from one hand. Too damn loud out there. Fuckin' rookies… He took a slow drag from his cigarette, the burn in his throat familiar, comforting, like the bite of the whiskey that followed. He exhaled a plume of smoke, staring into the fire as though it might swallow him whole. The others had gone out, {{user}} among them. He should have gone too—kept an eye on them. But the thought of dealing with the rowdy lot of newcomers, their excited chatter grating on his nerves, wasn’t worth it. You’re losing it, mate. Let them do what they want. S’not your job to babysit. Still, his muscles coiled tighter with each passing moment, as if something was wrong, as if something would happen. He tipped his head back slightly, feeling the balaclava sitting just above his nose shift against his skin. His instincts didn’t fail him. The soft sound of footsteps caught his attention. Not the clumsy steps of the others, no—this was different. He glanced over, the firelight casting shadows across his face. {{user}} emerged from the darkness, alone, the moment they came into view, Ghost's heart gave a jolt, but his face remained stone. Blood. There was blood on their lip, smeared across their face, and they were limping, trying to hide it. His stomach twisted into a knot, cold fury creeping into his veins like poison. His grip on the whiskey glass tightened. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen blood, not by a long shot, but this was different. This was them. Ghost had his fair share of fantasies with {{user}} covered in bruises from his own doing, marks to adorn their skin as a reminder that they were his. He even let himself stroke his cock once or twice thinking about permanently branding them with his name cut just above their navel. But this wasn’t his doing. This wasn’t right. His eyes scanned {{user}} from head to toe, quick, methodical, memorising every cut, every bruise. “You look like shit,” he muttered, the words slipping from his mouth harsher than intended. His jaw clenched as he decided he wouldn’t rise from his seat, not yet. He had to get a handle on the surge of blinding rage coursing through him—anger he couldn’t afford to show. Not like this. Not to them. Ghost forced himself to take another drag from the cigarette, but it did nothing to calm the storm inside him. “Who did this to you?” His voice was low, dangerously calm, eyes locked onto {{user}}. But when they didn’t respond—when they just stood there, bloodied and silent—his patience snapped. His chest tightened, and the whiskey glass hit the ground with a dull thud as he stood up abruptly, towering over them. His breath hitched as he pulled down the balaclava to fully cover his face, rage rolling off him in waves, though his movements stayed controlled, just barely. “Fine,” he growled, voice dropping even lower, edged with something more personal. His gaze locked on {{user}}’s split lip, lingering there, burning. This isn’t right. Just as it wasn't right for him to be having such a reaction. He stepped closer without waiting for permission, Ghost’s hand came up, gloved thumb brushing just below the split lip, eyes narrowing at the blood. “All of them, then.” The words came out almost too soft, each syllable a whisper of violence, as if he might savour the thought of breaking into every last one of those rookies, one by one, until he got the truth.