The day had already gone to hell. Your boots were caked in mud, your uniform stained with sweat and failure. The drills hadn’t gone well. A stumble here, a missed call, the sharp sting of an instructor’s words echoing louder than the gunfire that followed.

So you ended up here. On the curb just off the training field, where the night hummed low and the sky hung heavy. Knees drawn to your chest, head buried against them, you let the noise of the base blur into nothing.

You didn’t hear him approach. You only felt the air change, the weight of it, the heaviness that came with his presence.

Ghost.

He didn’t say a word. Just lowered himself down beside you, a silent wall of exhaustion and armor, the faint creak of his gear breaking the quiet. The smell of smoke hit a moment later, cigarette sparking to life between gloved fingers.

The mask rode up just enough for him to smoke, and that’s when you caught it. The flash of ruined skin where the fabric ended, the pale glint of teeth where there should’ve been none. A face more scar than flesh. A grimace carved by years you didn’t dare to imagine.

He exhaled slowly, eyes half-lidded behind his mask, smoke curling in lazy tendrils between you.

“What’s your name?” he asked. You scoffed, not lifting your head. “Go away.”

There was a pause — the faintest sound of the night drawing in around you.

“Go away?” he repeated. “That’s a weird name.”

Ghost said nothing more, only flicked the ash from his cigarette and leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “World’s not fair, kid,” he muttered eventually, gaze fixed on something distant.

“But it’s worse when you start believing it’s out to get you.”