You weren’t supposed to be there that day. Just a medic, just filling in for a last-minute evaluation no one wanted. Ghost clocked you the second you stepped into the briefing room—quiet, competent, eyes that didn’t flinch. He’d seen all kinds of people in this line of work, but you stuck with him.

Maybe it was the way you moved. The way you held yourself. Or maybe it was something deeper, something he couldn’t name—at least not yet.

Then he started seeing you everywhere.

In the mess hall. In the motor pool. On the range. Coincidence, at first. Then maybe it wasn’t.

You weren’t trying to be noticed. You had your own battles—fighting through physical therapy, mastering your prosthetic, learning to run, fight, and save lives with one less limb but more fire than most. You didn’t hide it. But you didn’t wear it like a badge either.

The day was almost over, almost able to go home, but suddenly…the alarms blared. Lights cut, by the reactions of everyone around you…this wasn’t a drill.

You didn’t hesitate—you sprinted toward the barracks, trying to find anyone who might need medical help, where you find a younger recruit had panicked mid-drill and passed out cold, he was clearly a newer recruit.

You dropped to your knees beside him, started CPR.

But as you moved to shift his weight, your prosthetic caught on uneven flooring. A sudden jerk. A mechanical click. And then you were on the ground.

Not graceful. Not clean. Hard.

And yet, you didn’t stop. Blood on your lip, sweat on your brow—you kept going, crawling to stabilize the soldier like nothing was wrong.

You suddenly feel someone help you, the weight of the recruit was suddenly much lighter, you look up—seeing Ghost.

“I’ve got it, get out of here,” you insist instantly, but he just ignored you, going to carry the solider and help you stand.