Chapter Text
Ghost isn't really a sentimental person. In his line of work, affections, personal items and anything of the sort don't really have a place in his world. His world being murder of course.
Feelings and emotions are tools to use to be exploited. Family, friends, partners, even personal belongings like family heirlooms as idiotic as that sounds, anything of the sort can be turned around and transformed into a bargaining chip, a threat or perhaps even a warning if he's feeling generous.
And whilst those rules are set in stone, carved into his heart along with a few hundred other rules and idiosyncrasies that he follows to a tee he's still far from infallible. Like that time he let a potential witness live simply because he was unable to push down his feelings of pity for the cowering sack of bones, or that time he killed that smugglers wife in a fit of rage—who, originally he'd planned to keep alive for information—simply because she'd brought up his mother.
His biggest weakness however lies with obsession.
Obsession over people more specifically although he likes to think that it just makes him better at his job. Stalking, learning routines, habits, discovering everything there is to know about his targets and learning how to manipulate that to his advantage to the point of what one would consider true and pure insanity. A bump in at a local coffee shop, a crossing of gazes at a bus stop, a small conversation at the park down the road, it's easy, believable, things that could feasibly happen even in a city as big as London, especially if he establishes a routine of sorts in his targets eyes, perhaps even exchange a few words, create something even more tangible to really sell the act.
All in a days work really, especially if the reward is another body added to his collection.
His recent obsession however, is far from someone Ghost wants to toss in a landfill out in the damp and green british countryside, no, his current obsession is a pint sized Scottish man with the most ridiculous trim he's seen since Damon Albarns "There's no other way" haircut.
The locks on Johnny's doors had been—and are still—stupidly easy to pick, and the man should probably invest in better windows and overall security but all the more power to him if he truly believes those flimsy almost plastic like locks are going to save him from potential harm.
The first day after their official meeting and putting a name on Johnny that wasn't just "the next door neighbor" Ghost had snuck into his house and riffled through every drawer, cupboard, cardboard box and wardrobe in the house. It hadn't been particularly hard to discover that the man had recently divorced and it also wasn't hard to find who he'd divorced.
Daniel, some posh twat who looked like he should be shaking hands with the royals and silently sipping tea and definitely not someone who should be married to Johnny, loud, hardworking and mouthy Johnny who looked like he belonged in the field with the lads throwing around a football and going on weekend long benders. Ghost supposes that Daniel must have also come to that conclusion if the copy of the divorce papers lying on the dining table was anything to go by.
Ghost had seen other traces of Johnny's life around the house, had taken in the man's preferences and likes. He'd perused the man's bookshelves and riffled through one of the many art books raving about Monet, had poured himself a glass of the half finished whiskey bottle Johnny had left out on the kitchen counter and slowly savored it, he'd gone through the man's laptop, sorting his way through work files occasionally stopping to read the names of different coworkers, he'd flipped through the man's numerous sketchbooks and when Ghost had heard the sound of keys jingling and a lock turning he'd silently slipped out of the kitchen window and slithered his way back into his own house, feeling just a bit closer to the new object of his attention.
-
Usually, when a divorce occurs, especially after a somewhat long marriage, the divorcees might struggle adjusting to a life alone, they might find it difficult to rid themselves of certain small habits like setting out two sets of cutlery or two mugs as opposed to one, they might even fall into a depression or something akin to it, they might become mopey or withdrawn, bitter and sour.
When they'd first met Johnny had shown no such signs and in all honesty it almost surprised him. Apart from the copious amounts of booze hidden away neatly in kitchen cabinets and the lack of any real food—that these days is slowly transforming into less instant meals and more fresh stuff—Johnny had been a fairly regular bloke, he had seemed almost cheery, but Ghost supposes it has something to do with the therapist he's seeing. And perhaps if Ghost himself had gone and booked one after retiring from the military he wouldn't have to spend most of his weekdays on his knees scrubbing out old stubborn bloodstains using the bleach Johnny had gifted him.
A gift from a angel, he'd say, if he believed in that sh*t and truth be told, these days he almost could be converted.
Ghost is far from religious. He knows some of the saints, can recall a few Bible stories but that's about it. He has too much blood on his hands to even consider pretending to kneel in front of some omnipotent God and beg for forgiveness to try and make himself feel better and justified, he isn't that shameless, doesn't need justification for the monster he has become.
As a new born he'd been baptized at the insistence of his mother, has vague memories of his mother dressing him and his brother up in their Sunday's best to be dragged along to mass and getting either a Freddo chocolate or a Cadbury egg as compensation but he doesn't think he's ever willingly kneeled to a God or said amen in anything less than a mocking tone. Even as a 6 year old his amens had been half hearted at best much to his mother's obvious disappointment. After he joined the military he doesn't think he uttered a single amen ever again, buried any notion of God right next to the bloodied corpse of his family, right next to the rotting corpse of Simon Riley and Manuel Roba.
But with Johnny perhaps he could be swayed into believing the stories about angels and gods that his mother would gush about as she clutched her rosary necklace close to her chest.
Johnny who in such a short time of knowing eachother has become such a integral part of his life, Johnny who's been the first person to extend him any form of kindness in such a long time, the first person to look at him without a ounce of fear or apprehension, who'd approached him solely with the intention of befriending him with no ulterior motive.
John McTavish, his own little angel who'd so kindly gifted him something without expecting anything in return.
The man tied to the chair in front of him is sobbing. His eyes are hazy and unseeing and his hands, or what's left of them, stubs of bone and hanging skin, are shaking. The man whimpers and tries to say something, perhaps plead for his life perhaps yell profanities, but all that comes out are wet gurgles as blood slowly falls from his mangled mouth like a strange bubbly waterfall.
Ghost leans against the the table behind him, his eyes fixed on the pathetic trembling figure in front of him as he fiddles with the zippo lighter in his hand, slowly bringing it up to light the cig pressed between his lips. Slowly he sets the lighter down and approaches the man, blowing smoke right into his face and watching in amusem*nt as said man coughs out more crimson and sputters weakly at the unexpected cloud of acrid smoke. He stands straight and grabs the man's face between his left thumb, index and middle finger forcing open the bloodied mouth.
The man thrashes as best he can and Ghost can almost hear the silent, pleading question of 'what are you doing' echoing in the room.
"Ashtray." Is all he offers as a response before plunging his right hand into the blood filled cavity and putting out his half smoked cigarette on the man's sensitive gums, right over the wound from where he'd pulled out the man's the molars with a rusted pair of pliers.
A muffled scream is all that the man offers, body still thrashing and twitching in agony.
Ghost pulls his hands out of the man's mouth and quickly steps back, wiping his soaked hands on his already stained shirt, watching as the man huffs and sobs before spitting out the cigarette from his mouth, heaving and taking in shuddering breaths, vomiting out pieces of ash and red onto the concrete floor.
And as nice of a sight this is Ghost still has a shop to open and plans to set in motion, so as quick as can be he sets to work, untying the man from the chair and grabbing him by the scruff of the neck only to throw him onto the floor and settle himself atop the man's chest.
When he looks down from his perch all he sees is fear in those cloudy piss colored eyes, pure unadulterated fear leaking through every pore, invading his every sense.
It's intoxicating, as delicious as it gets.
Ghost relishes these moments, the heady scent of fear only feeding into his ego and bloodlust, driving him insane and giving him a high no drug has ever been able to. Is this what Roba felt all those years ago when he was the one tied to that chair, gritting his teeth and biting his tongue so hard it bled? Or is this reaction simply another f*cked up mannerism Roba has instilled in him for the rest of his life in the man's attempt to turn him into a personal mindless killing hound? Perhaps he'd succeeded to some extent, but Ghost would like to kindly remind whichever God is looking down and orchestrating the tragedy that is his life that he remains, he remains standing hunting down every one of the man's useless little dogs and Roba doesn't.
Without any preamble he grabs the knife laying beside him (the same knife he uses to cut the steaks and hams on display) and plunges it into the man's chest, dragging and dragging and dragging the knife downwards towards him, watching flesh, muscle and tissue part like the red sea under the silver gleaming blade, watching blood pool around them as organs, viscera and more come to light.
The man is stock still, mouth agape in a silent scream, tears still streaming down his face, conscious and barely hanging on to life thanks to sheer adrenaline and shock. But Ghost knows that in less than a minute he'll be gone, that in less than a minute he'll be just as stiff and cold as every other body he's ever buried.
Slowly he sinks his hands down into the cavity that is the man's open chest, groping around inside and pushing wet squelching viscera around before clutching between his fingers the still warm heart. Pulling it out slowly is a tedious affair, especially when having to navigate blood vessels, veins and much more all for the sake of keeping aesthetics, but it's all worth it in the end for the pristine, unscathed organ that greets his eyes.
A perfect, healthy heart, the perfect gift for his perfect little angel.
-
Finding out about Daniel is easy, one simple Google search and his name is popping up left and right on some big corporate firm website, complete with a pristine profesional picture of the man of the hour smiling with all his pearly whites on show.
Ghost had skimmed through Daniel's "A bit about our employees" section of the website, eyes darting over the flowery language and excessive praise. There'd been little, very little for Ghost to go off of, only praises about his achievements and previous work experiences so Ghost had clicked his tongue in annoyance and resorted to do what he does best.
Finding where Daniel lives is even easier and Ghost, who's (quite suprisingly) not one to take the piss out of his targets, finds himself mentally snickering at how predictable the man is.
Daniel lives smack dab in the city center, right next to a fairly new tobacco shop and a few paces away from the ugly eyesore that is the pickle building.
The man follows a rigid schedule, as does every aspiring unfriendly London CEO. He rises at six thirty sharp and showers, slathering his body and hair in four different products before getting dressed—he always wears one of those expensive artisanal watches on his right and is particular to gold cufflinks—before settling for a breakfast consisting of granola, Greek yogurt and fruits. At 7:30, right before heading to the tube (a pleasant suprise for a man of his caliber, Ghost can applaud that at least) he makes a stop at one of the twenty thousand nearby Pret's and orders a black with one sugar before making his way to Aldgate, getting on the Circle line and getting off on Embankment. It's a tight schedule and one he follows every day, but it's not enough, it never is, obsession is what they call it.
Getting into Daniel's fancy apartment complex is easy, stupidly easy and Ghost almost laughs out loud as the lobby security let's him in with nothing more other than a sympathetic smile after he invents some bullsh*t story on the spot about his partner cheating on him and needing to get his stuff. Unsurprisingly it's just as easy to pick the locks and Ghost almost feels disappointed at the lack of challenge.
The inside of Daniel's flat is as generic as Ghost expected, all white and black, minimalist in every sense with sharp edged furniture that appears more decorative than usable in any way, a far cry from Johnny's mismatched living room with its forest green couch and old orange armchair that creaks and groans whenever there's too much pressure on it. The only real thing that stands out to Ghost at first glance is a ugly blue armchair that looks like it costs more than the mortgage on his house and the big colorful art print laying on the floor resting against a wall.
He makes his way over to the art print and bends down to inspect it, gloved fingers softly running over the paper.
Truth be told it looks more like something Johnny would have hung up in his home, bright, coherent, a picture of serenity as opposed to the random colorful paint splatters that Daniel has framed on his sterile white walls.
Ghost slips the print from out of it's frame, Daniel be damned, and carefully rolls it up, stuffing as much of it as possible inside his backpack before standing back up.
He ransacks some of Daniel's drawers and shelves, pausing on a small well hidden polaroid of him and Johnny smiling at the camera, matching rings on their fingers, scoffing he tears Johnny out of the picture and pockets it for himself, grabbing the other half and crumpling it up before launching it into the bin resting beside Daniel's work desk with accuracy and finesse. He sweeps through every room one last time, occasionally pocketing pictures of Johnny that have been hidden away before ducking out of the flat and heading back out onto the busy street and disappearing between the masses of pedestrians.
With one last glance up at Daniel's ugly apartment he walks away, whistling softly to himself as the stolen pictures of Johnny rest in his breatpocket, hidden and safe for him to fawn over once home.
-
Larry is a little bitch. That's the conclusion Ghost has come to, his already bruised and split knuckles sporting a new claw scratch, honestly he isn't even sure what he did, one moment he was just reading one of Johnny's books and petting the cat and the next thing he knows he's letting out a undignified howl as Larry jumps off leaving behind a fresh new wound that's bound to scar.
And yet, Larry is the best wingman a man like him can ask for.
He's sitting on Johnny's couch, his hand held out as Johnny fusses over his split and scratched knuckes with such care and concentration Ghost wants to go outside and break a man's skull he's that excited.
"How'd ye even f*ckin' split ye knuckles mate?" Johnny asks, painstakingly applying those expensive specialized weirdly shaped band-aids on Ghost's knuckles.
He shrugs and let's out a grunt. "Just... some prick who had it coming."
He watches as Johnny looks up at him with his baby blues. "What he do? He being a c*nt?"
"No." He says softly. "Was a drug dealer dealing outside of my shop, had to teach him a quick lesson."
It's half true in a sense. The man had indeed been a drug dealer and Ghost had indeed taught him a lesson, but what Johnny needn't know is that the lesson lasted for 4 agonizing hours and that in the end, his body ended up dumped in a landfill 2 hours away from London.
He watches Johnny frown, his lips pursing. "Well 'hen, fair enough."
Ghost suppresses a smile and instead grunts stoically from behind the mask as Johnny pulls back with a small flourish.
He brings his hands up to his face and flexes, slowly twisting and turning his hand before nodding "Thanks."
He watches as Johnny mock salutes him and suddenly, before he can properly think it through he's standing up, grabbing his backpack and rummaging through it. "I got you something."
He watches as Johnny perks up, slowly edging closer towards him. "Yeah?"
Ghost grunts and pulls out the—stolen—art print and hands it over. "Saw it in a store, thought you might like it."
He watches as Johnny unravels it before his eyes go wide, his jaw opening slightly before looking up at him and back down at the print.
"f*ckin' hell Ghost!" He exclaims, excited. "Where'd ya find this one?"
Ghost shrugs and stares straight ahead. "Around."
Johnny gapes and gasps. "Was searching fur one like this... I uh, lost mah old one so to speak." He says sheepishly with a small cough.
Ghost can sense that there's more to the story but says nothing, instead just nodding his head. "No problem. None at all."
He grins to himself as he watches Johnny flutter around his living room, pointing out places he could hang it and talking about the frame he'd want to out it in.
How sweet, he thinks, a small sinister grin growing under his mask, how utterly adorable.
