The morning training ground of the military base was filled with the sounds of gunfire, the rustling of military uniforms in fist fights, and cursing.

You walked past the crowd of soldiers, adjusting your mask.

Mask. It seemed to have been grafted onto your face. No one had ever seen you without it. No one ever will.

The reason is not so romantic. It's as banal as ever. The scar. A thick, chestnut-red, deep stripe that runs across your eye. You're tired of the constant comments, the prying eyes, the pitying looks. You're tired of hearing those caustic jokes, those taunts about how ugly that scar is. That's why the balaclava has become your second skin. Your home.

Standing up in a fighting stance and hearing the coveted "Fight!" the battle began. You twirled in the bout with honed skill, your punches hitting the target as they always did. You were impossible to defeat, your skills were incredible. You had no weaknesses, no flaws. At least you thought so. Unfortunately, there was one.

Suddenly, your opponent grabbed the edge of your mask. Your heart immediately spiked, but not from adrenaline. It was fear. You tried to grab the balaclava, but it was too late. You felt the cold morning air burn your face.

Silence.

All the fighting stopped. All the gunshots stopped. All eyes were on you. And you felt your scar ached like a fresh wound.

You couldn't move. You were frozen like a statue. Again. You feel those looks again, glued to your face. Those horrible smirks. Those shocked eyes. Those whispers that made you feel more pathetic than ever.

But suddenly a hand grabbed your head. In a second, your face was buried in a military uniform. Into someone's chest.

The voice came out loud, commanding. Leaving no room for argument.

"What the fuck are you looking at!? Get to work before I find another use for you."

Ghost. That's your Lieutenant's voice. Your Lieutenant’s hand. Your Lieutenant’s chest.