The ghost's fingers tightened around the gun.
A faint flicker crossed his face. Something between fear and acceptance.
"Because it is time," he said quietly. "Time to end things for all."
Simon's gaze lifted.
"It is either you… or me," the ghost added.
Simon watched him for a long moment. He had known this would come. There had never been another road waiting for him.
He exhaled once. Then slowly slipped off the long jacket hanging from his shoulders. He folded it neatly on a rusted machine to the side.
When he turned back, there was a black gun in his hand.
The ghost smirked. His fingers trembled a little. He did not know if it was fear or anticipation.
A gust of wind tore through the broken windows.
Curtains screamed. Dust spun in circles.
It was finally time when the man would break out from the cage.
"So how do you want to end this?" the ghost asked. There was a faint curiosity in his voice.
"Like always," Simon replied. He stepped forward.
"Aah. Like the old days?" the ghost said, a hint of surprise. "Didn't think you were the nostalgic type."
They moved toward each other. Slow and measured. Until only half a meter of space lay between them.
Point-blank range.
"So, my friend," the ghost murmured, voice rough. "Do you have any last wish? Anything. Maybe you want to talk to your teammates properly for once. Or confess to whoever it is you—"
"I don't," Simon said, soft and certain. "If I am gone, then I am gone. I will not leave burdens. Not for them. Not for anyone."
The ghost nodded once. "Well. Kind as ever. But I have one."
He leaned in slightly. His voice barely above a whisper. Like it was only meant for Simon.
"If I die this time… put me where I belong. Where everyone thinks I belong."
Simon nodded again. A quiet agreement.
The ghost's expression softened. A faint smile and gentle one.
They stepped back in unison.
First step. Dust rose.
Second step. The metallic air shifted.
Third step. Everything went still.
Even the wind seemed to stop breathing.
Simon's gun was pitch black.
The Ghost's was silver.
Different colours. Same purpose.
Their arms lifted in the same slow, mechanical motion. Like a ritual they had practiced a lifetime ago. They looked into each other's eyes one last time.
No regret. No anger. No fear.
Just relief.
Both threw their guns straight up into the air.
Metal spun.A silent countdown.
Two hearts held still.
Their eyes closed. Then snapped open again.
A violent sound tore through the air.
The ghost moved first, his fist slicing toward Simon's face like a blade. Simon tilted aside with precise timing, the punch missing by a hair. Before the ghost could recoil, Simon's knee shot upward toward his ribs.
Blocked instantly.
The ghost's hand was already there, catching the strike. He twisted sharply, trying to pull Simon off balance, but Simon spun with it, low to the ground, sweeping the ghost's leg.
The ghost hopped back.
Dust erupted.
The silver gun spun overhead.
The ghost lunged again, faster now. His shoulder slammed toward Simon. Simon pivoted, arm hooking behind the ghost's neck, trying to drag him down. The ghost twisted out, elbow smashing toward Simon's jaw.
Simon blocked with his forearm, slid forward, and planted a punch into the ghost's ribs. A clean, heavy blow.
The ghost grunted, but his eyes remained steady.
He grabbed Simon's wrist, bent it inward, and forced Simon two steps back. Simon broke the hold by striking the ghost's chest with his free palm, then both of them stepped apart again.
No pause. No breath.
Their bodies collided again immediately.
The ghost ducked under Simon's arm, grabbed his waist, and attempted a throw. Simon blocked by shifting his center of gravity, driving his elbow down into the ghost's spine. The ghost jerked away, spun, and struck Simon across the face with the back of his hand.
Simon's head turned slightly. Barely.
He answered with a straight punch aimed at the ghost's throat. The ghost deflected with the side of his wrist and countered with a kick aimed at Simon's knee.
Simon jumped back, narrowly avoiding the crack of impact.
Above them, the guns kept spinning.
The ghost's movements became sharper, more desperate. He rushed in with consecutive jabs, pushing Simon step by step. Simon raised his guard and absorbed each hit, then slammed his fist toward the ghost's solar plexus.
The ghost bent sideways. Simon's punch grazed him, but he used the momentum to shove his shoulder into Simon's chest, forcing Simon backward.
Simon stumbled a single step. Just one.
The ghost grinned faintly. "You are getting slower."
Simon moved before the sentence ended.
His palm snapped upward, catching the ghost's jaw. The ghost's head jerked violently, but he turned with the motion, using the impact to swing his elbow into Simon's cheek. Simon's skin split. A thin line of blood trickled down.
They crashed into each other again.
Simon's fist met the ghost's forearm. The ghost's knee met Simon's thigh. Simon's head snapped forward, hitting the ghost's forehead. They both reeled back half a step.
The guns kept falling.
Simon lunged. The ghost countered. Hands grabbed hands. Forearms collided. Their boots carved lines on the dusty floor as they struggled for leverage.
The ghost twisted Simon's arm and nearly locked it behind his back, but Simon slammed his heel down on the ghost's foot and broke free. He turned sharply, aimed a strike at the ghost's temple.
The ghost caught his wrist and punched Simon in the gut.
Simon did not bend. The ghost punched again. Simon still did not bend.
Then Simon grabbed the ghost's collar and slammed his forehead into the ghost's face. Blood splattered. The ghost hissed in pain and staggered backward.
Simon pressed forward. One punch to the ghost's ribs. Another to his stomach. A third aimed at his jaw.
The ghost dodged the third by a breath, then spun, striking Simon's ribs with a sharp elbow. Simon stepped back, inhaled once, and re-engaged instantly.
They clashed like two storms ripping at each other.
Above them, the guns began to descend.
The ghost saw the shadow of the weapons dropping.
"It is time," he whispered.
He dashed forward. Simon moved, but the ghost passed him, sliding behind his shoulder, and leapt upward.
He caught the black gun.
Simon spun toward him.
One heartbeat later, Simon's foot slammed into the ghost's chest. The ghost was thrown back, balance lost for half a second. But half a second was enough for Simon.
Simon grabbed the falling silver gun mid-air.
Both of them hit the ground at the same time.
The ghost recovered instantly. One knee on the floor, one foot braced, black gun raised.
He pulled the trigger the moment he found Simon's face.
Bang.
The bullet ripped through the air in a straight, vicious line.
Simon's face shifted only slightly.
The ghost's expression froze. His body stopped.
His eyes fell downward.
A dark red stain bloomed across his chest. Blood soaked into his shirt, spreading outward like a flower of ruin.
He coughed lightly. Blood spilled from his lips.
There was no pain on his face. Only amusement.
and relief.
He raised his arm again, aimed directly at Simon's heart, and pulled the trigger.
Click.
Nothing fired.
The chamber was empty.
The ghost smiled softly. His eyes half-closed.
"Same as ever, huh…"
His voice faded. His eyelids lowered.His body slumped forward.
And the ghost collapsed onto the dusty ground, silent and still, as if the room itself swallowed him.
The silver gun hung loose in Simon's hand.
The world did not move. Only the curtains fluttered slowly.
The ghost was gone.
Forever.
The silver gun slipped from Simon's hand first.
It hit the floor with a soft metallic roll before settling into silence.
The ghost's body lay still, eyes half-open, chest unmoving. His hair had fallen across his forehead, and the faint smirk he had died with was frozen there, like a final joke only he understood.
Simon did not move.
He stood in front of the body for several long breaths, each slower than the last. His fingers were still curled as if holding the gun. His shoulders stayed stiff. His lungs tried to pull in air, but everything inside him felt locked.
No victory or relief. Just a hollow space where something heavy had been cut out.
He walked forward eventually. Steps made no sound.
He knelt beside the body. His hand hovered over the ghost's shoulder, but he did not touch him. His fingers shook once, then stilled. He watched the blood pooling beneath the ghost's back, spreading into the cracks of the dusty floor.
The breath he released came rough and thin.
"So it is over," he said softly.
His voice came out flat, almost detached, yet there was something inside it that should not have been there.He reached slowly toward the ghost's face. His thumb brushed the corner of the ghost's eyelid. The eyelid closed gently under his touch.
He lowered his hand.
For a moment, Simon simply stared at the man he had known, the man who had betrayed him, the man he had cared for, the man he had killed.
"What did they do to you," he whispered.
His throat tightened. He swallowed it down before it could grow into something else.
He straightened the collar of the ghost's shirt. Smoothed it once. Pressed it flat. He did not know why. Maybe it was respect. Maybe a habit. Maybe memory. Maybe guilt.
He stayed there, sitting on the floor. Eyes unfocused. Like he was listening to something only he could hear.
After a long silence, he spoke again.
"You should have come earlier, and told me everything."
A second passed.
"Or you just didn't know." His voice lowered. "Like everyone."
Another breath left him.
He closed his eyes briefly. Just enough to blink away the weight pressing against them. When he opened them, there was no shine, nor emotion. Only the familiar stillness that had built him and broken him in equal measure.
He stood up carefully, as if any sudden movement would disturb the quiet around them.
He looked one last time at the man lying on the ground. The man who had once walked beside him. The man Simon could not save. The man Simon should have saved. The man Simon had to kill.
"I will put you where you asked," he said softly. "Where the world believes you belong."
He turned away.
His footsteps were steady, but slower than before. Each one carried something invisible.
He did not look back.
The room swallowed his silence as he left, and the body he walked away from finally became what it always was in the end.
A ghost.