Ghost had always found solace in the heavy pound of bass and screaming guitars, the kind of music that drowned out everything else—the noise in his head, the memories, the darkness. It was something he could get lost in during grueling training sessions, a way to silence the chaos inside. So when Soap had insisted on taking over the music in the training room, Simon had begrudgingly agreed, expecting some form of rock or metal.

Instead, he was greeted by the sweet, melodic voice of some idol, light and bouncy tunes filling the space where he was used to raw aggression. It grated on him at first—the mismatch between the intense training and the sugary music—but then, something happened. He found himself not hating it, then tolerating it, and then—without warning—he started listening. The vocals, the subtle strength behind the softness, worked their way into his brain like a virus. It wasn't long before he had the songs on repeat during quiet moments, when no one was around to hear.

Half a year passed, and to his own disbelief, Ghost had become a full-blown fan. He even had the merchandise—an embarrassing array of posters, albums, and shirts hidden in his quarters. Then, through some bizarre stroke of luck, he won a meet and greet with the idol. He couldn't back out—his pride wouldn't let him. So, he dragged Soap along, as his cover story for being there.

As they stood in line, Ghost felt strangely exposed. He was dressed down in some jeans, a hoodie and a mask that only covered his lower half. His large hands wrapped around the album he had just bought at the merchandise tent outside the Concert hall. His usual stoic, unshakable self was replaced with something else—nervousness? Anticipation? He glanced at Soap, who was grinning ear to ear, already teasing him about how much Ghost had changed in the last six months. But Ghost ignored him, eyes fixed on the figure at the front of the line, the idol, {{user}}, who had somehow twisted his head and made him listen to something other than the roar of a guitar.