『𝐘𝐄𝐔𝐑𝐈』✰ GhostxReader

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴛᴡᴏ

ᵀᴴᴵᴿᴰ ᴾᴱᴿˢᴼᴺ ᴾᴼⱽ
ᴵᴬ
༺♥༻

"Second chances?"

Yeuri
The name of a calm female Ghost, who can be aggressive when triggered.

༺♥༻

The room was sterile in every sense of the word. Fluorescent lights bathed the walls in a cold, unwavering glare, casting shadows that seemed sharper than the truth itself. Y/N's wrists were tightly bound to the metal arms of the chair, the weight of exhaustion pulling at her limbs as if the binds themselves had siphoned every ounce of her strength. She sat slumped, eyes heavy, but her gaze flickered, taking in every cold, clinical detail of the room.

Opposite her, a single camera perched in the corner, its red recording light a constant reminder that every move, every shift in her posture, was being observed, analyzed. And behind that one-way mirror, she knew there were eyes on her, watching in a detached silence, as if she were some specimen under a microscope, laid bare and picked apart by those clinical, faceless gazes. She wondered if they'd been watching her for hours—taking notes, dissecting her behavior in a way that felt almost invasive, like someone rifling through her innermost thoughts.

The room smelled faintly of bleach, and the scent clawed its way into her nostrils with every shallow breath, burning her lungs, unsettling in its unnaturally clean aroma. It made her feel strangely out of place, a trespasser in an environment that seemed designed to erase the very humanity out of a person.

Laswell entered then, closing the door behind her with a soft, intentional click. The sound echoed, a hollow punctuation that cut through the silence like a scalpel. She was impeccably composed, her gaze steady as she assessed Y/N from a distance, taking in the sagging shoulders, the barely contained defiance lingering in her eyes.

"Long day?" Laswell's voice was soft, almost conversational, a stark contrast to the severity of the room. She settled into the chair across from Y/N, crossing her legs with a casual grace that felt almost unsettling, given the circumstances. She looked unbothered, like they were merely two acquaintances having a chat, as though Y/N wasn't strapped to a chair, battered and worn down.

Y/N's eyes narrowed, the spark of exhaustion giving way to something sharper, colder. "You could say that," she replied, her voice hoarse, barely concealing the layers of fatigue lurking underneath.

Laswell smiled, a small, knowing curl at the edge of her mouth. She reached down, pulling a manila folder from her bag, its edges crisp and untouched, yet somehow ominous, as if it held secrets that could dismantle even the strongest resolve. She placed it on the table between them, fingers tracing the edges, a quiet, meticulous gesture that spoke volumes.