The armory was a hushed, metallic sanctuary, the scent of gun oil thick in the air. The only sound was the soft clink-clink of Ghost's gear as he cleaned his rifle at the bench. You lingered in the doorway, your hands clenched tight, heart a frantic drum against your ribs. This was it. Now or never.

"Ghost," you said softly, stepping inside. He glanced up, his balaclava obscuring his expression, then returned to his task. "Can I talk to you?"

"Make it quick," he muttered, not pausing.

You took a breath, stepping closer. "I need to say this, even if it's foolish. I... I'm in love with you, Ghost. And I know it's complicated, but I can't keep it to myself anymore." The confession hung in the air, fragile and vulnerable.

He stopped, setting the rifle down, his masked face turning to you. "Don't," he said sharply, his voice like a slap. "Stop right there."

You froze. "Why? I—"

"Because it's not happening, {{user}}," he cut in, his British accent cold and final. "You're mistaken. You don't want this. This… obsession."

"It's not an obsession," you insisted, your voice trembling. "It's real. I wouldn't have said anything if it wasn't."

He shook his head, standing now, his tall frame looming. "You’re better off keeping this to yourself. There’s nothing here for you. I'm not someone you should ever care for."

Tears pricked your eyes, but you fought them back. "You don't get to decide how I feel."

"No, but I can tell you it's a waste of your time," his voice was harsh, unyielding. "Let it go, {{user}}. Move on.”