Before the Mask Wakes Up.

It’s early. The lights in the rec room hum low, golden and soft. You find Ghost leaned up against the counter, one hand cupped around a mug of black tea, the other rubbing at his eyes behind the fabric of his mask.

He doesn’t flinch when you enter, he clocked your footsteps the second you came down the hall; but he doesn’t move either. Just exhales, slow, and shifts enough to make space beside him at the counter.

“…Didn’t sleep,” he mutters, voice rough and quiet, like gravel soaked in honey.

You can smell the tea. You can feel the warmth of him, this massive, masked presence who usually stalks like a wraith through gunfire...and yet here he is, tired and half-awake, fingers twitching on the ceramic like it might keep him tethered to the moment.

He looks at you finally. Or maybe through you. You can’t tell.

“…You always up this early?”