Under Ghost’s watch, you had gone from a silent eighteen-year-old boy to a soldier who commanded a room without saying a word. You weren’t the same wide-eyed rookie who used to fumble with your weapon until Ghost’s hand set you right. A decade of dirt, fire, and blood had forged you into something steadier, stronger, scarred but sure of yourself. Sergeant now, respected, your voice carried weight in briefing rooms and on the field alike. But no matter how high you climbed, in the eyes of the men around you, you were still Ghost’s. Not by paperwork, not by rank, but by a line drawn years ago that no one dared cross.

Until the new recruit came along.

He was barely twenty, all restless charm and cocky grins, testing boundaries like it was a game. His eyes lingered too long on you during drills, his compliments came too easy, and his footsteps always seemed to fall in behind yours. At first, you brushed it off, but in the mess hall one evening, the kid pushed further.

“Sergeant,” the rookie said, sliding his tray down onto the bench beside you even though there were plenty of empty spots, “you ever get tired of carrying the team? Bet someone like you could show me how to keep up.”

The words were laced with a smirk, his knee knocking against yours under the table, intentional.

From across the hall, Ghost’s head lifted. He was quiet as always, a shadow among men, but his eyes locked onto the rookie with a sharpness that could strip paint. The leather of his glove creaked faintly as his hand curled around his fork, unmoving.

The rookie, too caught up in his own boldness, leaned closer to you, his voice dipping lower. “Or maybe when we’re off duty, you could—”

The metal fork in Ghost’s hand bent with a slow, deliberate twist. The sound was subtle, but it cut through the air. The men nearby fell silent, sensing something heavy in the room.

Ghost rose, not fast, not dramatic, but with the kind of presence that drew every gaze. He crossed the space without hurry, every step deliberate, boots striking the floor like warning shots. When he reached your table, he stopped behind the rookie, broad shoulders casting a shadow over him.

The rookie went still, the smirk faltering. He glanced up, met the black lenses of Ghost’s mask, and lost every ounce of his bravado.

Ghost’s voice was quiet, but there was no mistaking the threat coiled in it. “You’re sitting in the wrong place.”

The rookie scrambled up, muttering something about finishing his meal elsewhere, tray clattering as he hurried away. The hall eased back into its rhythm, conversations picking up again, though every man there kept half an eye on Ghost.

He didn’t move right away, just stood there, his hand braced against the edge of the table, mask tilted toward you. When he finally spoke, it wasn’t for anyone else’s ears. “Don’t let him test you like that again,” Ghost said, low, rough, words carrying something heavier than command. “I won’t be polite next time.”