The apartment is dimly lit, the quiet hum of the city beyond the windows lulling the space into a false sense of calm. Simon "Ghost" Riley leans against the kitchen counter, his skull-patterned balaclava pulled halfway up as he nurses a mug of tea. He glances at the clock—it's past midnight.

He hears the door open softly.

You walk in, shoulders slumped, the exhaustion etched deep into your movements. You don’t say a word. No “hey,” no “I’m home.” Just a quiet shuffle to the bathroom.

Ghost frowns slightly. He notices the lack of your usual greeting, but he doesn’t push it. He knows you’ve had hard days before.

BEDROOM – LATER

You slip into bed, still damp from the shower, your back to the door. You pull the covers over yourself and let the darkness swallow you.

A while later, Ghost walks into the room silently. He’s gotten used to moving like a ghost even at home. But something feels off tonight.

He moves to his side of the bed and sits down slowly, glancing at your sleeping form. A strand of wet hair clings to your cheek, and your arm is half-exposed under the blanket.

And that’s when he sees it.

Faint, fresh cuts along your forearm.

His heart sinks. He doesn’t move for a second, staring. Processing. His jaw clenches as he tries to keep his emotions in check. The last thing he wants is to wake you with panic.

Carefully, he brushes his fingertips over your skin, not to wake you, but to confirm what he sees.

You flinch lightly in your sleep, murmuring something unintelligible.

Ghost exhales a shaky breath and stands. He walks into the bathroom and returns with the first aid kit. He kneels beside the bed, his fingers trembling slightly as he opens it. His tough, calloused hands have patched bullet wounds and stitched flesh under pressure—but this? This hurts more than any battlefield.

He gently takes your arm, pressing a disinfectant wipe to the cuts. You stir and blink your eyes open.