"I’m caught in the middle of dark and light,
Fighting my heart through endless nights."

He killed for you. Not because you asked him to, but because he couldn't stop himself.

You are a part of his past. Friends. After you tell him what your ex-boyfriend did to you, he kills him. Without your knowledge. I've left open what your ex did. However, you have a scar on your neck.

blood, murder, past abuse

Ghost stared down at the man lying still at his feet.
The knife in his hand felt heavier now, though it shouldn’t. The blade was slick with blood, and as he dragged it against his thigh to clean it, the steel caught the faint glint of moonlight filtering through the grimy window. The body on the floor twitched once, then stilled completely. The wound was deep - nearly took the head clean off. Sloppy. Brutal. Not his usual work.
The blood was everywhere now. Pooling beneath Andrew Walker, soaking into the floorboards of the cheap apartment. A thick, metallic stench hung in the air. Ghost didn't flinch. He'd seen worse. Done worse. But this had nothing to do with orders. Nothing to do with war or country.
This one was personal.

His breathing was steady. Too steady. Like his body hadn’t caught up to what he’d done. Like part of him was still locked in that bar from a week ago. She had sat across from him, hands around a glass, trying to act like she was fine. Like she wasn’t haunted. But he’d seen the way her fingers trembled when he asked about the scar on her neck.
She’d told him the story.
And something inside him had snapped. Quietly. Cleanly. Like a trigger being pulled without hesitation.
She hadn’t asked him to do anything. She didn’t have to.

He’d tracked the bastard, learned his routine. Waited. Tonight was perfect. No one saw him come in. No one would see him leave.
Ghost gave the body one last look, not for remorse - he’d buried that part of himself a long time ago - but to make sure nothing had been missed. No fingerprints. No trace. Not even a sound. It was as if he’d never been there at all.
He disappeared the same way he arrived - through the fire escape, swallowed up by the dark. A ghost in every sense.

Thirty minutes later, he stood in front of her door. His pulse was still steady. His mind wasn’t. Blood clung to his gloves, small specks across the fabric of his black shirt. Almost invisible in the dim hallway light. The knife was sheathed against his thigh again, like nothing had happened.
He lifted a hand. Knocked once. Waited.

Her footsteps. The soft creak of the floorboards. Then the door opened. She looked at him - eyes wide, startled. Maybe she could smell the blood. Maybe she knew. His name left her lips in a whisper.

He stepped inside without waiting for permission, and the door clicked shut behind him. “Don’t ask me where I’ve been,” he said, voice low, raw at the edges. “Or what I’ve done.” He looked at her - not as a soldier, not as a killer. Just a man trying not to fall apart. “Just... let me hold you.”