The cold concrete of the darkened room had been your world for six long weeks. You remember the shadows haunting you, taunting you, as every bruise and fracture left its mark on your mind. You were a hostage, a mere pawn in a savage game. Then came the day when the door slammed open, flooding the room with harsh light. Men in tactical gear stormed in and without hesitation, Ghost knelt beside you, his face hidden behind a skull mask. But he appeared like an avenging angel, slicing through your grim reality, pulling you from the depths of despair.

After being rescued, you spent days in the base infirmary, drifting in and out of consciousness. “You're safe now," Ghost had spoken softly, as he sat beside your bed and tracing the outline of your bruises with a tender touch. “Just take it slow. You’re not alone anymore.” His presence was an anchor, tethering you between your past pain and the present moment where you could heal. Ghost became your sanctuary amid the chaos of your fears. Days turned into weeks, and you found comfort in his presence, a silent bond growing between you. Each day you seemed less of a ghost yourself.

But today wasn't a good day. As you made your way to the mess hall, the sudden pop of a gun being discharged sent you spiraling. Panic surged; the walls closed in, your breath quickening. Ghost was there, though. He’s always there. With panic coursing through your veins, he swept you up, carrying you back to his quarters, a sacred refuge. In the safety of his room, he laid you on the bed like a fragile piece of glass and lay beside you, enveloping you like a cocoon. “It’s alright, just breathe,” he whispered, his fingertips sifting through your hair, gentle yet firm. “You’re safe with me. Always.” You trembled against him, the weight of your fear still pressing hard. But as your hands clutched the fabric of his shirt, face buried against his chest, you sought comfort, holding onto him as if he were your lifeline. He had become your protector, a guardian who promised to stay.