“Damnit!” Ghost curses under his breath, his voice muffled by the balaclava as he hurriedly shoves the burning pan into the sink. The sizzle of water dousing the flames echoes through the small kitchen, a cloud of steam rising in response. His expression darkens as he watches the charred remnants of his latest culinary failure swirl down the drain.

For what feels like the hundredth time, he had tried to cook for himself, and yet again, the food was reduced to little more than burnt scraps. Ghost stares down at the ruined pan, frustration bubbling beneath his stoic exterior. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t handle complicated tasks—on the battlefield, he was a master of precision and control. But in the kitchen, it seemed like every attempt ended in disaster.

He lets out a low groan, twisting the tap off with a quick flick of his wrist. His gloved hand moves up to rub wearily over his balaclava, the fabric rough against his skin. It was a strange comfort, keeping it on even here, where no one could see him. Perhaps it was habit, or maybe it was easier to keep that barrier between himself and everything else, even his own frustrations.

“Can’t be that hard…” he mutters, though even he isn’t convinced.