A complicated past (Ghost x Y/n )

"If brokeness is a work of art, I must be a poster child prodigy."

Song- Neptune by Sleeping At Last

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"Told you, I wasn't a good person," you say, doing your best to hide the pain those words inflicted on your soul.

Distant memories bubble at the back of your mind of a little girl who wanted to do nothing more than to be a good person. To nurse those sick back to health. To help suture their wounds, bandage their cuts, and tell them that everything will be okay.

But that was a flightless dream that would eventually crash and burn when reality came storming in.

The hum of the roof lights fills the tense silence. Your words seem to travel at a turtle's speed to the man, who no doubt thought he had you worked out like a puzzle.

You were something he saw a million times in his line of work. A poor, defenseless woman who craved a slice of danger, not knowing that slice, though tucked in an expensive Armani suit, would prove to be more than you could handle.

In reality, you were broken, shattered into tens of thousands of pieces, paying the price for someone else's grievances. You could care less about money, power, danger, expensive jewelry, or flashy clothes.

Only one thing mattered to you, and you would sell your soul to the most depraved monsters a hundred times over to protect it.

Taking advantage of his surprise, your hand rears back only to sling forward, launching one of your knives twenty feet through the air towards the neighboring building. His head flies in Soap's direction as the knife breaks the glass, barely missing his friend but causing him to roll out of frame from his sniper. 

You watch the man the Scottish lackey called "Ghost," never taking your eyes off of him as his body rages a war with his mind. His hand twitches at his side, his weapon clenched tight in his grasp. Years of training and basic self-preservation had his brain screaming to unholster it and stop you before you made another move.

A soldier, especially a lieutenant, should employ any effort they can to stop a target or enemy from getting away, but he couldn't force his body to put you in such a vulnerable position.

"The only reason one of my knives isn't digging into your skin is because you offered me a peaceful surrender; I can't say the same for your friend."

As if your voice wakes him from his internal struggle, his eyes look over you, freezing as they come to your side, "You're bleeding."

His british accent comes out thicker than before.

You laugh, wincing at the pain that shoots through your nerve endings.

A feeling you weren't accustomed to.

Pain was nothing new to you, so much so that you welcomed it. You made a home inside the tingles that scattered throughout your body anytime a wound was inflicted. Broken ribs, bruises, knots, and black eyes lost their edge a long time ago. But an open wound where a metal ball barreled through flesh and muscle had the surrounding area erupting into a burning sensation.

This pain was different, though. For the first time in years, the pain stung.

Was it because of the week you spent observing the man with the balaclava and his associates? Was it because they seemed different? Or maybe because you hoped they were different.

They weren't cut from the same cloth as most people here were. They seemed like decent people, which was a rarity in a place like this.

A part of you had hoped he- you mean, they—would see you tonight for more than their assumptions. The oh-so-clique pretty, gold-digging hussy hanging on The Mayor's arm for his money and power.

But that couldn't have been farther from the truth. None of this was your choice.

"Please don't act concerned for me now, pretty boy. It's insulting.''

He steps to you, the quick flash of pain across your face sending his body into autopilot. You take three steps back, keeping the distance between you to equal what it was before.  "I don't think so. Follow me, and a knife will be nailing your foot to the ground."

Noticing the flash in his eyes that screamed a knife in the foot would be worth it,  you take off in the opposite direction across the roof. Your figure disappears from eyesight behind the fog, and his body runs in the same direction, only to stop at the ledge of the roof, his boot sending loose gravel to the ground below him.

His eyes frantically searched the city beneath him, his ears picking up the sound of sirens blaring from all directions. And though the constant sound of ambulances and police sirens never bothered Ghost before, it only enhanced his anxiety now.

A new worry claws at his chest, knowing you were hurt in a city that would see nothing but an injured woman searching for safety and take advantage of the situation.

Assassin or not, you were wounded, which made defending yourself about as helpful as a white crayon on a white sheet of paper. Fighting off just one attacker is going to cause a significant amount of blood loss and energy depletion. In a hellhole like this, you're bound to run into at least one every mile you walk in this god-forsaken city.

He didn't understand why fear filled his bones, making his skin itch with the need to find you. You two had barely said more than a few sentences to each other when you weren't observing him from the shadows.

But there was something about you that made him gravitate toward you, even in the darkness.

He was a moth, and like all moths, he wanted to burn his wings in your flame.

Turning away from the ledge, he follows the small drips of red liquid on the gravel back to the spot your boots had occupied moments ago. Anger coasts up his back as his head raises, his eyes meeting Soap's, standing in the frame of the shattered window in the building across from the rooftop.

First, he was going to rip Soap a new one for hurting you.

Then he was coming for you.