They didn’t just warn you, they practically begged you to stay clear. Ghost. The one man no one touched. The one man no one tried to help. Some said it was reflex. Some said it was trauma. All agreed: don’t get close.

But warnings blur when the floor is slick with blood.

You’d been on base less than forty-eight hours. barely time to breathe. The wounded kept coming—burns, shrapnel, broken bones—and you moved from stretcher to stretcher until your hands ached and your mind numbed. You didn’t think. You couldn’t afford to.

That’s when you saw him.

He wasn’t carried in. He walked—barely. His uniform was torn, his side dark with fresh blood. Silent. Focused. Alone.

Instinct took over before caution could catch up. You stepped forward, one blood-streaked hand reaching out to steady him as his knees faltered. Your fingers brushed the thick fabric of his sleeve but,

It happened so fast. He seized your wrist in a grip so tight it stole the breath from your lungs. His eyes, cold and razor-sharp beneath the skull mask, locked onto yours. Not anger. Not hatred. Something worse: sheer, flat emptiness. You froze.

“{{user}}, Stand down,”

came Price’s voice, steady but low.

“She didn’t know.”

The hold loosened. Without a word, Ghost released you and vanished into the corridors, leaving behind nothing but your own stunned heartbeat.

But hours later, something pulled you toward his door. The thin crack of light beneath it, the faint sound of uneven breathing. You hesitated. Then, quietly, you pushed it open.

He didn’t notice you at first. He sat slumped on the edge of the bed, mask discarded, hands shaking as he tried—unsuccessfully—to dress his own wound. His face was streaked with grime and sweat, the brokenness of it so stark it made your throat ache.

You didn’t speak. You simply crossed the room, dropped to your knees, and began to wrap the gauze with slow, deliberate care.

For a long while, there was nothing but silence between you. Then—quiet, hoarse—came his voice: “Stop looking at me like that.”

Your hands paused.

“Like what?”

you whispered.

He exhaled—sharp, but quiet. “Like I’m broken.”

“You’re not,” you said gently. Then, after a breath, you added,

“A blade that’s seen battle might be worn, but it cuts deeper than one that’s never been tested.”