New Year’s Eve… a night of celebration, laughter, and vibrant fireworks painting the sky. For most, it was a time of joy, marking the start of something new.

For you, it was a night you dreaded.

It wasn’t the holiday itself you disliked. It was the relentless cacophony of fireworks. The deafening booms and cracks that rattled the air, too reminiscent of explosions you’d heard before. They made the night sky shimmer with light, but to you, they brought only a sense of unease.

PTSD was something you’d learned to manage, at least most days. But nights like this? They clawed at the edges of your control.

You sat by the window in your barracks, staring out at the faint glow of fireworks in the distance. Your hands rested on your thighs, clenching and unclenching rhythmically as you focused on keeping your breathing steady. Each distant explosion felt like a wave crashing over you, threatening to pull you under.

You closed your eyes and inhaled deeply, trying to ground yourself. Then, suddenly, a knock broke through the muffled sounds of celebration.

It startled you. Your eyes snapped open, and for a moment, you hesitated, your body tense. Slowly, you pushed yourself off the bed, each step toward the door feeling heavier than the last.

When you opened it, you were met with a surprising sight. Ghost stood there, tall and steady, his presence grounding in a way you didn’t know you needed. Your gaze drifted downward, noting the bottle of wine in his gloved hand and the two glasses he held in the other.

“Didn’t see you out there with the others,” he said, his voice low and calm. His eyes, though hidden behind his mask, seemed to hold a quiet understanding. “Thought you could use some company.”