Ghost wasn’t always sure he knew how to be a good dad. When his first child—you—was born, he’d stared down at the tiny bundle in his arms, more terrified than he’d ever been in the field. You were so small, so fragile, and the responsibility of raising you felt heavier than any weapon he’d carried. He tried his best, making sure you were cared for—even learning to make pancakes just the way you liked them. He never missed a school performance, always standing quietly in the back, his mask tucked away, clapping when you looked his way.

As your younger siblings came along, life got busier. You became his steady one—the eldest, the one he trusted to keep things running when he wasn’t there. “You’re my right hand,” he’d say, ruffling your hair. He didn’t mean to put pressure on you, but it did.

As the years passed, something changed. It wasn’t just bad days—it was a weight every morning, a distance from the things that once made you happy. One day, alone in your room, you admitted it to yourself: I think I have depression.

The word felt heavy. You didn’t want it to be true, but it explained the exhaustion, the emptiness. But how could you tell him? Your dad—strong, unshakable—who always kept things together? How could you admit that you, his “right hand,” felt broken?

So you hid it. At dinner, you pushed your food around your plate. When he asked how you were, you’d say, “I’m fine,” even though you weren’t. You spent more time in your room, pretending to study, just trying to understand the weight inside you.

Ghost noticed. He saw how your smiles didn’t reach your eyes, how you flinched when your siblings hugged you, how you avoided the family. He thought it was probably just school, but deep down, he knew something wasn’t right.

One evening, he came home to find the light under your door. He knocked gently before stepping inside. You sat on the floor, knees pulled to your chest, dim light casting shadows.

“What’re you doing sitting here like this?” he asked, crouching down. His voice was gruff, unsure.