The mission wasn’t the worst you’d been on—not by a long shot. No constant firefights, no last-minute evac, no blood soaking into the sand. Just recon, logistics, and long days of waiting. The kind of quiet work that still needed doing. The kind the Task Force rarely got called in for.

You and Ghost had been rotated in together, positioned in a temporary safehouse just off-grid, somewhere dense with trees and forgettable on a map. A week here, maybe two. Just the two of you running close-range checks, keeping tabs on supply convoys, gathering intel on a cell too cautious to make noise.

It wasn’t quiet, not really. But compared to the hell you’d both seen, it almost felt like peace.

You were his sergeant now. Funny, considering he’d been the one assigned to train you two years back—sharp-edged and cold-eyed, testing your every move like he expected you to fail. But you didn’t. You learned fast. You held your own. And somewhere along the line, the tension between you had shifted into something else. Not trust, not exactly. But something quieter. More constant.

He never said much. Never had to.

The safehouse was quiet, tucked deep in the woods, far from anything resembling civilization. Rain tapped lightly on the tin roof, muffled beneath thick pine canopies. Inside, the warmth of a dying fire cast flickering gold across the floorboards.

Ghost moved through the dim light with the same quiet purpose he always did—boots barely making a sound on the creaky floor, mask pulled up just high enough to sip from the chipped metal mug in his hand. The coffee inside was lukewarm, maybe hours old, but he didn’t seem to notice.

Your birthday had slipped in like a whisper, barely acknowledged. You hadn’t mentioned it. No one had. But somehow, he knew.

He didn’t say anything about it when he returned from patrol earlier than expected, didn’t say anything when he disappeared into the shed out back for half an hour either.

Now, he stood in the doorway of the small sitting room, shadows playing across the fabric of his balaclava, one hand holding something wrapped in an old cloth. His posture, as always, unreadable—but there was something in the way his thumb rubbed absently along the edge of the bundle. Like hesitation.

Then, without ceremony, he stepped forward and held it out to you.

The cloth unfolded easily in your hands. Inside—nestled in dark flannel—was a dagger.

Not standard issue. This one had weight. The blade was steel, matte-finished and razor sharp, but it was the handle that stood out—dark polished wood, hand-carved with a quiet, deliberate pattern along the grip. A series of small ridges, initials, and symbols you vaguely recognized. A history etched into it by someone’s hands. Maybe his.

It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t meant to be.

It was meant to last.

Ghost didn’t sit. Didn’t linger. He watched you for a breath longer than usual, then shifted his weight and muttered, voice low, gruff as ever.

“Didn’t think you’d want a cake.”

A pause.

“Figured this’d suit you better.”