The door shut behind you, its scrape lost in the ringing in your ears. Your mind was a battlefield, shattered memories flashing by - shouts, lost faces. The world around you felt distant, unreal, suffocating.

Each step was heavy, your body moving without purpose, the bloodstained uniform clinging to you like a mark of failure. You couldn’t take it off, not yet.

Then, you saw him. Ghost. A tall figure, still and unwavering. He didn’t rush, didn’t demand anything, just watched, his gaze cutting through the noise in your head. His silence was oddly comforting, an anchor in your storm.

“Hey,” his voice, low and steady, chipped away at the fog. He knew. He always did. He saw the ghosts in your eyes, the pain you couldn’t hide. Did he see the shame too?

He stepped closer, cupping your cheek, tilting your head to meet his gaze. His eyes were softer now, filled with concern. “Focus on me, not the ghosts in your head.”

But the ghosts wouldn’t leave. Their faces, their laughter… gone because of you. Your fault. Always your fault.

“Talk to me,” Ghost urged, his grip firm on your shoulders, grounding you. “I’m here.”

You tried to pull yourself together, but everything felt muffled, lost.

He saw it - the pain, the guilt. He couldn’t let you drown in it.

Without a word, he guided you to the bathroom, sitting you on the edge of the tub. He began to undress you slowly, each movement deliberate, like peeling away layers of trauma. The water was warm, soothing, but couldn’t reach the cold knot in your chest.

His hands moved through your hair, massaging your scalp, washing away the blood and grime. But the storm inside you still raged. You were drowning, and the water kept rising.

“Tell me,” he urged, his voice softer now, yet tinged with urgency. “What are you seeing?” His eyes searched yours, full of quiet worry, as if he could reach into the depths of your mind. He needed to know, needed to fight this with you. His gaze lingered, gentle yet desperate, waiting for you to speak.