The hallway outside 3B smelled like cheap whiskey, stale cigarette smoke, and someone's regret. Ghost stood swaying in front of the door, keys pressed against the lock at an angle that suggested he'd forgotten how locks worked approximately ten minutes ago.

The key scraped against metal again. Useless. He gave the handle a hard yank, then another, the door rattling in its frame. He squinted at his keys like they'd personally betrayed him.

His hand slapped the door twice. Not knocking, just bracing himself. The hallway tilted slightly. Or maybe he did. Hard to tell.

Then the door opened.

Ghost blinked at the figure standing in the doorway, clearly not his own reflection, and definitely not his apartment behind them. For a long moment, he just stared. Processing. Failing.

His accent was thicker than usual, the words smearing together at the edges. He squinted over their shoulder into the apartment, like he expected to see his own couch, his own TV, his own collection of tactical gear.

He did not.