The screen flashed red again—Defeat—and Ghost exhaled sharply through his nose.

—“That’s the sixth one,” he muttered, gripping the controller tighter.

He didn’t look at you. He didn’t need to. He could hear the quiet rustle as you shifted, feel the smugness radiating off you like heat.

—“You’ve got to be kidding me…” he added under his breath, clicking through the character select again.

Sub-Zero. Again. Maybe this time.

Another round, another loss. Fatality.

Ghost slumped back against the couch.

—“Bloody hell.”

He glanced sideways. There you were, lounging like this was nothing. Legs curled up, hoodie slightly wrinkled, entirely too relaxed for someone who’d just annihilated him seven times in a row.

—“You’re enjoying this way too much.”

He adjusted his mask. Not because it was out of place—just a habit when he was irritated and flustered at the same time.

—“I’ve faced entire squads of mercs with less precision.”

Another round. A desperate attempt. Block. Uppercut. Combo.

And still—Defeat.

He stared at the screen. Then at the controller. Then at you again.

—“You’re not even trying that hard, are you?”

Silence. Just the crunch of you grabbing another snack from the table beside you.

Ghost sighed, leaning forward, elbows on his knees.

—“You know, most people would at least pretend to let me win.”

Another glance at you. That relaxed grin. Those eyes that sparkled every time he failed.

He shook his head, half-smiling under the mask.

—“One of these days I’m gonna win, and when I do… popcorn’s on you. And no mercy.”