You weren’t supposed to feel this way. That’s what you told yourself, night after night. When the lights dimmed in the barracks and the world outside went silent, you told yourself the way your eyes followed him was just admiration. Respect. Curiosity. But lies, even the comforting ones, rot eventually.

It started the day Ghost touched your hand. A simple drill. A simple fix. He slid behind you in the range, correcting your grip with steady hands and a voice as low as gravel. The contact was fleeting. Innocent. But it seared into you like a brand. From that point on, you weren’t watching him. You were studying him. Obsessed with the weight of his steps, the sound of his breath through that ever-present mask, the way his eyes flickered with something unspoken when he looked at you.

It wasn’t long before your admiration grew teeth.

You started collecting pieces: his presence in physical form. A piece of tape from his gloves, an empty casing he left behind, even the shirt you stole from the laundry rotation. His scent became your comfort, your drug. You told yourself it was fine, that it wasn’t hurting anyone. But deep down, you knew.

You became his shadow. Ghost didn’t speak much, but you filled the silence for him. With fantasy, with longing, with a darkness you didn’t want to name.

And when that shirt finally lost his scent, you couldn’t take it anymore. You needed something fresh. Something closer.

That’s how you ended up here. In his room.

Quiet. Too quiet.

The lamp cast long shadows across the floor, illuminating the small, austere space. His presence was everywhere. His smell lingered in the air, faint but still there. You walked carefully, fingers brushing his gear like it was sacred.

Then you saw it. A barely concealed panel in the back of his closet, slightly ajar. Curiosity pried it open.

And your world shifted.

Inside: photographs of you. At first, they were small, distant. Like surveillance. But they got closer. More intimate. A strand of your hair tied delicately with black thread. Your handwriting, copied onto paper, over and over. The ribbon you lost weeks ago, now hanging like a trophy.

You froze.

He had been watching. Always watching.

The soft sound of a boot against the floor pulled you back into the room. You turned slowly.

There he stood. Ghost. Mask on. Arms crossed. The unreadable black of his gaze pinned you in place. His voice was low, rough.

“Didn’t expect to see you here, {{user}}.”