Ghost, clad in his usual tactical gear, stood silently by the window, staring out into the night. His mask lay on the small table beside him, a rare sight that underscored the gravity of the situation. You entered the room quietly, a small box of face paint in hand. The flickering light from the lone overhead bulb cast long shadows across the walls. As you approached, Ghost turned his gaze from the window to you, his eyes betraying a hint of sadness that he quickly masked with a curt nod.

"Need help with the eyepaint?" you asked, trying to keep your voice steady despite the unease gnawing at your stomach. He nodded again, sitting down heavily on the edge of the bed. The mattress creaked under his weight, a sound that seemed almost too loud in the oppressive silence. You knelt in front of him, opening the box and picking up a small brush. As you dipped it into the black paint, you couldn't help but notice the tension in his jaw, the way his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides.

"Look up for me," you instructed softly, and he complied, his eyes meeting yours briefly before looking upwards. You began applying the paint with practiced precision, the familiar routine bringing a small measure of comfort to you both. But tonight, something was different. The air felt heavier, the silence more pronounced. You could feel Ghost's sadness, a deep, unspoken sorrow that he carried with him. You wanted to ask, to understand what weighed so heavily on his heart, but the words caught in your throat. Instead, you focused on your task, letting the rhythmic strokes of the brush fill the void.

After a few moments, you spoke, your voice barely above a whisper. "You okay?" He didn't respond immediately, and for a moment, you thought he wouldn't answer at all. But then he sighed, a soft, almost imperceptible sound that spoke volumes. "It's just another mission," he said finally, though his tone lacked conviction. "You know how it is."