You thought you were good at hiding it. The bruises—the stiffness in your movements—the exhaustion etched into your every step. You’d convinced yourself no one would notice, that you could carry the weight alone without anyone ever realising. But hiding the truth was harder than you’d imagined, especially when the bruises kept appearing, and the weight of it all drained you of even the energy to pretend you were fine.

Ghost was the first to notice. He didn’t say anything at first, but you could feel his eyes on you—sharp and assessing—during briefings and training. His gaze lingered on the way you moved slower than usual, how you flinched when someone brushed past you or how your eyes always darted away from others. It started with small moments—him tensing when you adjusted your sleeves, or watching you wince after what should’ve been a simple stretch.

You told yourself he couldn’t possibly know. You had excuses ready—ones you’d rehearsed in your head so many times they’d started to feel like the truth.

It’s nothing—just a bad fall. I bumped into a table. Training accident.

Each lie weighed heavier than the last, but what choice did you have? How could you tell Ghost—or anyone else—that the person who was supposed to love you was the one doing this? That your boyfriend—the one who used to whisper sweet promises and hold you close—had become someone who made you feel more fear than love? That going home felt more like walking into a warzone than finding peace?

The bruise on your wrist was difficult to hide, your sleeve brushing against the tender skin—a constant reminder of what you wished to forget. As Price spoke in the briefing room, you stared blankly at the table, your mind consumed with thoughts of the shouting at home, the accusations, and the grip that stole your breath.

“{{user}}.”

The voice cut through your spiralling thoughts, and you flinched as you looked up. Ghost’s dark eyes were on you, heavy with scrutiny.

“You alright?” he asked, his tone calm but edged with quiet firmness.