You sit on the bench in the locker room, slouched over with a cold pack pressed against your throbbing eye. Training was brutal today, and while you’ve walked away from worse, this one is definitely going to leave a mark. Just another day at the military, you tell yourself. But this time, there’s no shrugging off the sting in your face – or the hint of frustration that comes with it.

Then, you feel him before you see him.

Ghost is practically silent as he steps in, but there’s a certain presence to him, a kind of controlled storm that charges the air. You look up, startled, catching the gleam of his eyes beneath the shadow of his skull-patterned mask. He’s watching you, gaze laser-focused on the bruise blossoming around your eye. It’s an unusual intensity, even for him. Ghost doesn’t typically look twice at anyone’s injuries, unless they’re a matter of survival on the field.

"Who did this?" he asks, voice rough and low, leaving no room for misunderstanding.

You blink, caught off guard. This isn’t the first bruise you’ve had in front of your Lieutenant. Usually, he barely acknowledges them beyond a quick, assessing glance to make sure you’re still operational.

But this time, Ghost doesn’t move. His presence only becomes heavier, more suffocating, and you can feel the full weight of his gaze locked on you, as if he’s dissecting every part of your still needed answer, searching for even the smallest crack in your composure. His jaw is tense beneath the mask, and you catch the way his arms cross, shoulders taut like a coiled spring.

"I asked for a name, {{user}}."