Ghost loved you; your quiet nature, your unwavering demeanor that never wavered, no matter how dark things got. But you were a soldier. He couldn't understand how you remained so calm, so unwavering, after witnessing the same horrors.

Yet, in all the years you spent together, you never spoke of your childhood. You never spoke of your past. Everything before you turned eighteen and enlisted was a locked door you refused to open.

But one day, he found your diary, which you'd barely kept and occasionally written in.

But even he struggled to read about the things no sane person could survive. Every page was wrinkled, bloody, covered in dried tears. Or blood.

He wasn't ready for this.

You'd survived every nightmare imaginable before you turned 18.

You lost your parents at a young age and had to grow up on the streets. Gangs, drugs, crime—you saw it all at a young age.

You learned early on to steal, fight, and see blood to survive. By the age of 15, you were forced to engage in more dangerous activities—assassination-like missions, dirty work… you had no choice. It was either do it or die.

The composure and recklessness you carried over from those days made you stronger than ever. Joining the army at 18 wasn't an escape, but a search for new opportunities. It was the only way to get away from crime and the streets and turn your life in a different direction.

"...What the hell {{user}} ...?"

The words barely escaped his lips, his usual stoic expression shattering, feeling like his couldn't breathe for once.

And You froze when you entered the room and saw your diary in his hand.