The stale air of the Brooklyn apartment clung to Ethan like a shroud. Cigarette smoke, long since cooled and turned acrid, mingled with the faint, metallic scent of old blood. Outside, the rumble of the B train vibrated through the floorboards, a constant, mournful groan that echoed the turmoil within him. He sat hunched in a threadbare armchair, a glass of amber liquid sweating in his prosthetic hand. The other appendage, or rather, the stump that remained of it, throbbed with a phantom ache that was as much psychological as physical.

Ethan Blackwood was a ghost in his own life. A decorated soldier, reduced to a silhouette, a shadow of the man he once was. The medals lay forgotten in a dusty box beneath the bed, tarnished emblems of a past that felt both impossibly distant and unbearably present. He hadn’t touched them in years. They were reminders of courage he no longer possessed, sacrifices that seemed meaningless in the face of his current reality.

He took a long swig of the whiskey, the burn a familiar comfort. It numbed the edges of the memories, softened the sharp contours of his regret. But it never erased them.

A flicker on the television screen caught his eye – a news report about ongoing conflicts in Afghanistan. He gripped the armrest, knuckles white against the worn fabric. The images swam before him, superimposed on his present: the scorching sun, the dust devils dancing across the barren landscape, the faces of his comrades – young, scared, but brimming with a naive idealism that he now envied.

*Flashback.*

*The Humvee bucked violently, throwing Ethan against the armored plating. The air was thick with the stench of diesel and fear. Sergeant Miller’s voice crackled over the comms, barely audible above the roar of gunfire.*

*"Blackwood, flank left! We're taking heavy fire!"*

*He moved, adrenaline coursing through his veins, the M4 rifle an extension of his own arm. He saw them then, insurgents emerging from the shadows of the mud-brick buildings, faces contorted in hate. He squeezed the trigger, the weapon bucking in his hands, spitting death. More enemies appeared, a seemingly endless wave. He saw Miller go down, a crimson stain blossoming on his chest. Panic tightened its grip on his throat.*

*A deafening explosion ripped through the air. A blinding flash. Then, nothing but darkness.*

*When he opened his eyes, the world was a blurry mess of pain and confusion. He was lying on the ground, surrounded by debris. The air was thick with smoke and the smell of burning flesh. His leg was twisted at an unnatural angle, the bone protruding through his shredded trousers. His arm felt…wrong. He looked down and saw only a mangled ruin of flesh and bone. He screamed, a primal sound of anguish that echoed across the ravaged landscape.*

The flashback ended abruptly, leaving Ethan gasping for air, his heart pounding against his ribs. He slammed the whiskey glass down on the side table, the clatter jarring him back to the present. He was safe, relatively speaking, in his dingy Brooklyn apartment. But the war still raged within him, a constant, insidious battle against the demons of his past.

He reached for another cigarette, his prosthetic hand clumsily fumbling with the pack. The nicotine offered a momentary respite, a temporary shield against the onslaught of memories. He lit it, inhaled deeply, and exhaled a plume of smoke that curled towards the grimy ceiling.

The accident, the one that had taken the rest of his limbs, was another layer of pain he tried to bury. It had happened a year after his discharge, a year spent bouncing between veterans' hospitals and dead-end jobs. He had been riding his motorcycle, a vintage Harley he had poured all his savings into, trying to recapture a sense of freedom, of control. He had been drunk, of course, but not excessively so. Just enough to quiet the voices in his head.

A delivery van had run a red light. He remembered the screech of tires, the blinding headlights, the sickening crunch of metal on bone. Then, darkness again.

He woke up in the hospital, a prisoner in his own body. The doctors had done what they could, but the damage was irreversible. He had lost his left leg above the knee and his right arm below the elbow. He was fitted with prosthetics, but they felt alien, unnatural. He hated them. They were constant reminders of his incompleteness, his brokenness.

He pushed away from the armchair and limped towards the window, the rhythmic clank of his prosthetic leg a metronomic counterpoint to the train’s rumble. He looked out at the rain-slicked streets of Bedford-Stuyvesant, the neon glow of the bodega across the street painting the scene in a garish, artificial light. The neighborhood was a melting pot of cultures and struggles, a vibrant tapestry of life woven with threads of poverty and crime.

He had chosen to live here, not out of any sense of belonging, but out of a perverse desire to punish himself. He deserved to be surrounded by ugliness, by decay. He deserved to suffer.

He saw a group of young men loitering on the corner, their faces obscured by hoodies. He knew them. They were local thugs, petty criminals who preyed on the vulnerable, shaking down shopkeepers and harassing women. He had seen them in action before, and each time, a flicker of the old Ethan, the soldier who had sworn to protect the innocent, stirred within him. But he had always suppressed it, telling himself that he was in no condition to intervene, that he was no longer a hero.

He turned away from the window, the weight of his regret pressing down on him like a physical burden. He was a shadow, a ghost. He was nothing.

He reached for the whiskey bottle again. The ghosts were easier to bear when they were blurred by alcohol. He poured himself another drink, the amber liquid sloshing precariously in the glass. He raised it to his lips, ready to drown himself in oblivion.

But then, he heard a scream. A high-pitched, desperate cry that cut through the noise of the city and the haze of his despair. It was a woman’s voice, filled with terror.

He froze, the glass halfway to his mouth. The scream echoed in his ears, a siren call that he couldn’t ignore. He knew that voice. It was Clara, his neighbor, the young woman who lived in the apartment across the hall. She was kind, always offering him a smile and a warm word, despite his gruff demeanor.

He hesitated for a moment, the familiar wave of self-doubt washing over him. He was broken, useless. What could he possibly do? But the scream came again, more urgent this time, more desperate.

He couldn’t ignore it. He couldn’t stand by and do nothing.

He set the glass down on the table, the whiskey untouched. He took a deep breath, the air stinging his lungs. He clenched his prosthetic hand, the metal cold against his skin.

The ghost of Ethan Blackwood, the soldier, the protector, stirred within him. And for the first time in a long time, he felt a flicker of something other than despair. He felt a spark of purpose.

He limped towards the door, his heart pounding in his chest. He didn’t know what he was going to do, but he knew that he had to do something. Clara needed him. And maybe, just maybe, he needed her too.