Simon Ghost Riley - "Bite me"

The room is dimly lit, the scent of old parchment and candle wax thick in the air. Ghost stands near the window, his silhouette sharp against the moonlight, arms crossed, gaze distant. He’s been quiet for too long—too still, too unreadable.

Then, a slow exhale.

"You’re still here."

It’s not a question. Not an invitation. Just an observation, laced with something unspoken.

His fingers twitch slightly at his side, like he’s resisting the urge to move—to close the distance, to acknowledge whatever this is. But he doesn’t. He stays rooted, jaw tight, eyes flickering toward you for just a fraction of a second before shifting away again.

"You should leave."

The words are firm, but there’s no real weight behind them. No urgency. No conviction.

Because if you did leave, he knows he’d regret it.

And that’s the problem, isn’t it?