The fire crackles low between you and Ghost, tiny sparks floating up into the black sky like dying stars. The wind has teeth tonight, brushing through the mountain trees like whispers of the dead. You’ve both earned this silence—earned it with blood, bullet casings, and the weight of missions that never quite leave you.

It’s late. Too late for small talk. Too early for rest.

The others are inside, asleep or pretending to be. But you and Ghost? You’re on watch. Not because it’s your shift. Because neither of you trust sleep when the world still feels like it could collapse at any second.

You’re both just sitting there—shoulders almost touching, eyes on the horizon. Not saying a word.

Until he moves.

Ghost’s gloved hand rises slowly to the base of his skull mask. Not rushed. Not dramatic. Just deliberate.

You glance at him out of instinct, unsure if you’re seeing it right—but he’s already pulled the mask halfway up. The firelight dances against the sharp lines of his jaw, catching on old scars and days of grit he didn’t bother to clean.

He doesn’t look at you. Not at first. Just stares straight into the woods ahead, the mask now resting in his lap like a weight he’s finally ready to set down.

He lets outs out a huff before speaking, his voice is rough—raspier than usual. A whisper carried on ash and trust.

“I’m a bit unpleasant lookin’. But I’m still only human.”

You don’t speak.

Instead, you turn to him fully, letting your eyes adjust to what so many never will. Not a monster. Not a legend. Not Ghost. Just a man—tired, weathered, and real.

You reach up—slow, like one wrong move might spook him—and your fingers find the jagged scar carved along his cheekbone. Your thumb brushes over it gently.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away. But he does tense just a little, but you can see how he forces himself to stay still. For the first time in all the years you’ve known him… he lets himself be seen.

And then, softly—barely above the wind—he spoke again, his voice low and hesitant.

“You’re the only one I’ve let see me like this.”

He didn’t look at you, almost as if he expected you to turn away. But you didn’t. Your fingers stayed against the scar on his cheek, warm and steady.

The silence between you felt heavier now—filled with everything he couldn’t say.

You met his gaze, your voice barely above a breath.

“I know,” you reply.