The Masks in Your Life (Ghost x Reader)

n i n e

Usually when he felt rage, it was somewhat measurable. Easier to calculate.

What he felt right now, especially since it concerned you, was an immeasurable wrath and fury. It was almost like the abstract manifestation of a bullet hitting him in the guts. Quick, painful, numbing.

It took him all his mental strength to not jump up from the chair, hell, out of the bloody window. He wanted to look into Mike's eyes while he made him suffer beyond his imagination, two heavy punches for every day he had made you miserable.

Three hundred and sixty-five times two, equals seven hundred and thirty times two, equals one thousand four hundred sixty punches to the face until he became unrecognisable, until Ghost would need to scrap up the remains of his own hand from the ground.

Two years of suffering for you, an eternity for your husband in return.

He managed to stay calm until Mike finished the call, then he wasted no time getting started on his plan.

And by God, he needed one, otherwise he would let the rage consume him.

Mere minutes later, he was all set, carrying a duffle bag across the street and his gun behind his back, secured under the hem of his black cargos.

The secondary target was nowhere to be seen, which was convenient for Ghost and better for Harris' teeth. He would be next, following his boss into damnation.

His knuckles knocked on the door twice, the doorbell might have been too loud, and he didn't want to alarm the neighbours, especially not Mike's henchman.

It took Mike a little, and Ghost dropped the duffle bag to the ground. He corrected his posture, flexing his jaw, biceps bulging over his chest. He knew how to intimidate, and how to make it even more convincing.

When the door swung open, Mike was greeted by a pair of sinister, blue eyes. Ghost noticed how the other man's eyes caught the black skull balaclava, confusion and dislike evident in his face.

"Who are you?"

What Mike didn't notice however was the certain combination of scents that seemed to cling to Ghost's shirt.

"The new neighbour."

He held out a gloved hand and Mike glanced at it with suspicion, deciding not to return the gesture.

"Do I look like I care? Get lost", your husband replied, but it was clear that he was slightly nervous.

"Name's Simon", was all he said before it evidently clicked in Mike's brain, his synapses finally connecting the pieces.

Before he could react, Ghost's outstretched hand shot forward and grabbed him by his shirt, an iron grip on the bunched-up fabric. He forced his boot beyond the doorstep and pulled Mike towards him at the same time, so he could slam his forehead into his nose.

The hard skull hitting the fragile nasal bone had the desired effect, a crunching sound echoing through the hallway.

Ghost was taller, stronger, and more experienced but primarily, angrier. So much angrier.

He pushed your husband back with such force that his head reverberated from the floor, before towering over him, a disgusted sneer hidden behind the fabric of his mask.

"So you're the bastard who's doing my wife", he groaned, trying to scramble to his feet.

"The word wife's a bit generous, innit?"

"Still belongs to me the cute little thing", he pressed out, daring to follow up with a low chuckle.

"You think?", Ghost answered amusedly, knowing exactly that he had already managed to turn you against your husband, for your own good more than for his.