You’re tucked in the far corner of the mess hall, hands wrapped tight around a chipped mug. The hum of lights, clatter of utensils, and low chatter blur into the white noise you rely on to stay grounded.

But the calm doesn’t last.

The door bangs open, loud and abrupt like a gunshot, and you flinch instinctively. In strides Price, jaw clenched, followed closely by Ghost, his heavy boots echoing like thunder against the floor. Their tension drags the air taut, and even before the first words leave their mouths, your pulse is already quickening.

“You should’ve waited,” Price snaps, voice sharp and cutting. “And lose the entire op? You were stalling!” Ghost’s tone is cold but rising, laced with something dangerous. “Stalling? That’s what you think I was doing?”

It escalates too fast, too loud. Every word cuts deep, dragging up memories you’ve buried - shouts behind doors, hands over your ears, the panic of being small in a space that suddenly feels enormous.

You freeze.

Your throat tightens, chest constricting, heart pounding in your ears. Breathing turns shallow - not full panic, but close. The mess hall tilts slightly, nauseating and unreal. Your fingers twitch around the mug, knuckles bone-white.

“Please…” you try, but your voice barely makes it past your lips. It’s too soft, swallowed by the storm between them.

They don’t hear you.

They don’t stop.

And something inside you - something fragile, cracked along old fault lines- begins to buckle.

“Please stop arguing…” you say again, louder this time, but the trembling gives it away. It’s more plea than command, more wounded than brave.

Suddenly, Ghost’s head snaps toward you. Price’s words catch mid-sentence. Silence falls heavy, like a blackout.

You stand there, breath quickening, vision blurring at the edges - as if your body’s trying to recall a memory it swore it forgot.

Ghost’s tone shifts immediately. “…{{user}}. Are you okay?”