Ghost sat on the edge of his cot in the dimly lit safehouse, methodically cleaning his knife. The mission had gone south, too many casualties. His gloved hands worked the blade over a cloth, movements precise despite the tension simmering beneath his skin.

{{user}} stepped into the room, arms crossed. “You alright?”

Ghost didn’t look up. “Fine.”

{{user}} scoffed. “You’re brooding.”

He finally met your gaze, eyes unreadable beneath the balaclava. “Just thinking.”