Ghost was a soldier— A lieutenant, even. He’d fought in war, and missions and he’d been good at it. Good at fighting. Good at killing. But that didn’t mean he had liked it. It didn’t mean he had enjoyed being good at it.

Ghost was restless, hands ever-moving, unable to sit still for long. There were weapons in every corner of his room in the barracks - positioned there in fits of paranoia - hidden under pillows, inside drawers and boxes. Some array of knives and a muggle handgun.

He got up and moved out from his tent to meet up with you. He'd always know where to find you, tonight seems to be the same. "Can we talk?" He glanced over, troubled eyes behind those balaclava of his.