The base was quiet, save for the hum of distant aircraft and the occasional muffled chatter of passing soldiers. The air felt heavy with tension, a lingering reminder of the mission just a few days ago. You sat hunched at your desk, the lamp casting a faint glow over the papers scattered in front of you. The slight scrape of the pen against the paper was the only sound you could focus on, and even that seemed distant as the dull ache in your shoulder refused to let up. The injury wasn’t life-threatening, but the pain in your shoulder was constant—a nagging throb. The medics grounded you, telling you to rest—no missions, heavy lifting, or desk work. “Rest and heal, or it’ll get worse.”

You’d nodded along at the time, but sitting still and doing nothing wasn’t in your nature. The moment they’d cleared you to leave the infirmary, you were back at your desk, tackling reports and sorting intel. It wasn’t as though you were out in the field, you reasoned. This was light work. Still, your shoulder throbbed with every reach, every shift in your chair.

You were trying to push through it when the sound of the door opening cut through your thoughts. You didn’t need to look up to know who it was. Ghost's steps were slow but deliberate, unmistakable. He stepped inside, closing the door quietly behind him, the soft thud of the folder he placed on the table breaking the silence. He didn’t immediately say anything—just started unbuckling the straps of his gear.

“You’re supposed to be resting.”

His voice was calm, matter-of-fact. Not accusing, not scolding—just stating the obvious.

He stood at the table, eyes locked on you, his presence weighing down the room as his gaze remained sharp and unwavering.

“You think I’m daft?” he asked after a moment, the faintest edge of dry humour in his voice. “Can see you’re in pain from here.”

He stayed where he was—studying you with that sharp, observant gaze of his.

“How’s the shoulder?” he asked—his tone casual, almost offhand, as if he were asking about the weather.