Annoying Ghost
The safehouse wasn’t clean the moment I stepped inside. Not abandoned — left behind. I could tell immediately. Every detail screamed it: reinforced exits, concealed storage, weight-balanced furniture doubling as cover. Scars etched into the floor — repetitive, precise, obsessive. Whoever lived here didn’t just hide. They built a base, prepared for war. A vigilante had been here. I recognized it because I was one of them. The cold hit first. Not the city’s winter chill — sharper, deliberate.
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