Flame.

A small word with endless meanings. A flame can light a cigarette... Or it can start a wildfire no force could ever contain.

It only takes a spark to start a wildfire.

Some things in life hit without warning—swift, fierce, unstoppable. Just like a fire spreading across a dry field. It sneaks up when you least expect it.

It all started innocently enough. A casual gathering at the base, a rare break meant to loosen up the atmosphere and, for a few hours, forget the weight of ranks and duty.

One downside for you—you didn’t drink. You never needed it to enjoy yourself. Ghost didn’t either. He had a different reason: always stay sharp, stay ready. Alcohol dulled the senses, and Ghost could never afford that.

Still, you appreciated the way he stayed close, swapping conversations about everything and nothing while the party grew louder around you.

After a while, the crowd, the noise—it got too much. Slipping away unnoticed, you stepped outside into the cooler night, a cigarette tucked between your fingers, fishing for a lighter in your jacket pocket.

That’s when you heard footsteps. And then, that voice you knew too well—low, steady, unmistakable.

"Need a lighter?" Ghost asked, appearing from the shadows, his hands lazily tucked into his front pockets.

Before you could answer, he held one out to you. A brush of fingers. A tiny, accidental touch. An invisible spark igniting in the silence between you.

For a second, you forgot about the cigarette, standing there holding the lighter, caught in a strange, breathless moment.

Then his voice cut through again—but this time, it was different. Less casual. More certain. A subtle edge you couldn’t quite name.

"You sure you can pull a trigger with hands that small?"