He knew it only too well himself. The relentless terror, the acrid scent of gunpowder, and the sight of foreign blood could deeply affect someone — experiences he had endured numerous times. You, too, had grown accustomed to it, yet unlike him, you were unable to suppress your emotions during missions. You couldn't simply block out everything else and focus solely on the task at hand like he could.

Ghost could foresee it from a distance; he had known you and your stubbornness long enough to recognize when your emotions would transform into anger and frustration. When you were on the verge of exploding. Naturally, you wouldn't acknowledge how much the recent missions had drained you, how it simmered and bubbled inside you as you witnessed your own comrades perish for the greater good. It was unjust, Ghost acknowledged. But he also understood that you would persist in your deception, refusing to share the burden with the others in the task force.

For the umpteenth time, Ghost pressed you down onto the sparring mat, his gaze distant and indifferent since he had instructed you to stay longer earlier. Supposedly, you had grown weaker. Bullshit. A goddamn lie, you thought. „Again.“ he ordered brusquely. For over an hour, he had been allowing you to attack him repeatedly - the only outlet for stress that you couldn't deflect. Pure stress relief. Yet Ghost observed how you became increasingly frustrated, how your hair was now disheveled and clinging to your face. How bruises were already forming in the right places, visible as your shirt shifted. Goddamnit.

„We can continue like this for hours, Sergeant. Or perhaps you're finally ready to admit that it's getting too much for you.“ he swallowed hard as he forced himself to avert his gaze from your skin, as you smoothed out the creases of your shirt before settling back into your fighting stance. Your movements carrying the weight of fatigue like burdensome chains, each step a testament to the battles waged and the toll they've exacted.