Chapter Four: Ghost Mode
613 Words
Jason Eze sat on the edge of a crumbling rooftop, legs dangling over the side, cigarette burning slow between his fingers. The city stretched out beneath him, full of noise and life and violence he knew too well.
But all he could think about was her.
Amara.
The girl with soft eyes and a spine made of steel. The girl who didn’t flinch when she saw his blood. The girl who looked at him like he was human, not Razor, not the monster they'd made him into.
He brought the cigarette to his lips, then paused.
He didn’t even smoke anymore. He just liked the fire.
The ritual.
The burn.
That morning, slipping out of her bed had felt like ripping himself in half.
He’d watched her sleep for too long—her face soft, one hand curled near her cheek, the other brushing the empty space between them like she’d been reaching for him in her dreams.
It almost broke him.
He could’ve stayed.
God, he wanted to stay.
But people like him didn’t get soft things. Didn’t get kindness. Didn’t get girls like her.
Because everything he touched turned violent. Turned to ruin.
He’d left her a note—Thank you—because words like I’m sorry, or You saved me," " Please don’t forget me," felt too heavy. Too dangerous. Too real.
He didn’t deserve her memory.
But he couldn’t stop thinking about her anyway.
The way she’d pressed a towel to his side, not even blinking at the blood.
The way her laugh cracked something inside him open.
The way her smile felt like something close to forgiveness.
Razor wouldn’t survive her. But Jason—Jason had already been marked.
And that terrified him.
He leaned back against the rusted tank behind him, exhaling slowly as the wind tugged at his shirt. From up here, the world looked almost peaceful.
But beneath it, the streets were shifting. The Black Serpents were stirring again—old enemies resurfacing, deals turning sour, bloody debt rising.
He couldn’t drag her into this.
He wouldn’t.
But the truth clawed at the back of his throat: he didn’t leave because he wanted to.
He left because one more minute in that bed, beside her warmth, and he would’ve stayed.
And staying meant risking everything.
Her peace.
Her safety.
Her life.
A door creaked behind him.
He didn’t turn.
“I told you not to come up here,” he said.
“You say a lot of things you don’t mean,” came the voice. Male. Familiar. His second-in-command—Saint.
Saint walked up beside him, took the cigarette from his fingers, and crushed it under his boot.
“You disappear for a week, come back bleeding, and then vanish again,” Saint muttered. “What the hell happened?”
Jason didn’t answer right away. He looked out at the horizon instead.
“I met someone,” he said finally, voice low. “She saved my life.”
Saint let out a slow breath. “And you left her?”
Jason’s jaw clenched. “Because I wanted her to stay alive.”
Saint looked at him for a long time, then said quietly, “Maybe that’s not your choice to make.”
Jason didn’t respond.
Because deep down, he knew Saint was right.
But the shadows he carried were heavy, and the war around him was far from over.
Still, in the dead of night, when the world quieted and the blood stopped spilling—he heard her voice.
He saw her eyes.
And he wondered just how long a man could stay away from the only light that ever made him want to live
- Writer
