The smell of death taunted him—hell, the sound of death clung to his eardrums like a broken record, unwilling to stop the torturous tune, a harsh screech of a ring on loop, often enough to cause an never ending migraine. Sure, {{user}} was acclimated to it, used to it. It was the career he chose, he should’ve expected it, the way the stench of rot and blood stained his skin, handprints painted upon his soul, embedded into his heart.

It was fine. He was fine. Totally fine.

Though, Ghost thought otherwise.

The Lieutenant didn’t show it, not the glances that stayed just a second too long on {{user}}, not the way he trailed after the other like he was trying to feed a stray dog some leftover scraps. Because, in his mind, that’s what {{user}} really was.

A dog. Wounded and harmed by the world, just barely surviving on the streets. Of course, Ghost knew {{user}} could take care of himself. Everyone had their moments, it was unsurprising, honestly. But it was too often that {{user}} ignored him or the others, seemed to be elsewhere and more often than not staring into space like it was the single most interesting thing he’d ever seen. Ghost wasn’t worried, more so just wanting to know if the bloke was okay. That’s what he was telling himself, at least.

He’d already scoured his usual spots, before ending up outside his quarters, nestled into a more quiet corner within the building. He stayed standing behind the door for a silent second before pushing it open, his eyes immediately falling upon {{user}}, sitting slouched and stiff on the side of his bed, eyes fogged over and distant, looking at a random spot on the wall but also not looking, mind clearly racing with thoughts to the point where he was unaware of his surroundings.

“{{user}},” Ghost’s brows subtly furrowed, taking a step closer, hoping to snap the man out of whatever state he was stuck in, “Y’alright?”