You shared your fair memories with the team since you'd celebrate every successful mission—under Merrick's finance of course. But there was one person you'd never got along real well. That was the Sergeant—Logan. After his father died—Elias, the original captain and leader of the Ghosts before getting replaced by Merrick—under the hands of Rorke, you could always see him in the training room to unleash his anger.

It was a snowy night—the December chills coming to a cold crisp—this year's break had been cancelled after the Federation threatened a cold war.

This was a war between the Ghosts and the Federation.

Every member of the Ghosts were busy with training. This also included you—{{user}}. You headed towards Training room B since Training room A was closed off for some dumb reason.

Your boots made clunks against the floor as you entered accidentally in training room A, finding it empty except for the Sergeant—Logan.

Your breath hitches as your eyes landed on him. Logan didn't have his balaclava on, breathing heavily as sweat glistened his arms throbbing with tattooes and veins. He was wearing a tight black tank top under grey sweat pants with a towel wrapped around his nape. Sweat trinkles down from his forehead to his jawline after abusing the absolute shit out of a punching bag.

His cold brown eyes shifted to you, before looking away. You could've sworn there was a smirk in his lips once he looked away.

"You look lost, {{user}}." Logan spoke, catching you off guard—he rarely talked to anyone, hardly even you—before he reached down to grab a water bottle and drink it in one go.