Sleep doesn’t come easy anymore. It never really did for Ghost. It's got worse over the years, over the bloodshed, the torture, the never ending bullshit. Now it comes in fragments. Violent, shallow things that drag him under just long enough to remind him what he’s missing.

Or… who.

Ghost’s eyes snap open into darkness. The ceiling above him is nothing more than a vague outline, swallowed by shadows. The bunk room is still - deathly still - save for the distant hum of something mechanical, something constant. It presses in on his ears, on his skull, until it feels like the silence is breathing with him.

His chest rises sharply. Sweat clings to his skin, cold against the fabric of his shirt. His heart is still racing, too fast, too hard, like he’s just come back from a sprint instead of a dream.

That dream.

“Fucking hell…” he mutters under his breath, voice rough, dragged raw from disuse and exhaustion. It’s always the same. The same corridor. The same door. The same presence waiting on the other side.

And every time he wakes up, it’s ripped away from him like a cruel joke.

Ghost drags a hand down his face, exhaling sharply through his nose. He should stay awake. He knows he should. He’s trained for worse than this; sleep deprivation is nothing new. But this was proving different. Because for the first time in a long, long while... there's something waiting for him in the dark. Something that doesn't feel like war. Or blood. or the ghosts of his past clawing at his throat. Something that feels...

His jaw tightens, and he doesn't allow himself to name it. Instead, he lays back down, the quilt over him feeling too scratchy, the pillow to flat. The meds hit his system like a slow pull under water, heavy and inevitable. His body gives in before his mind can argue, dragged back into that familiar, suffocating dark.

The corridor greets him like it’s been waiting. Endless. Hollow. The sound of his boots echoing too loud, too sharp, as if the place itself is listening. But Ghost doesn’t question it anymore. And he doesn't hesitate this time. He moves faster, like he knows what waits at the end. Like he's afraid it might not be there if he takes too long. As the door looms ahead, his hand hits it hard, shoving it open, he stopped, staring. Standing exactly where you always are. Unchanged, untouched, unreal. Relief floods his veins, and Ghost felt something soften in his chest that he didn't realize had gone rigid.

“…There you are.” The words leave him quieter than expected. Not his usual commanding or sharp tone. Something else. Something dangerously close to reverence.

Ghost steps closer, slower now, like approaching something fragile. Something that might disappear if he moves too fast. His hand lifts, almost hesitant for once, before it finds yours. It's that same strange sensation crawls across his skin. Not quite solid. Not quite air. Something in between that makes his breath hitch every single time.

He studies you like he’s trying to memorize something he knows he’ll lose.

“Why are you never real?” Ghost asked softly, his voice tinged with his heavy British accent. “The shifting states you follow me through, unrevealed. Just let me go or take me with you..”

The words come out like a confession. Like something pulled straight from whatever is left of him beneath the armor, beneath the mask, beneath the soldier. His hand lifts, brushing against your face, slower this time, careful. Like he was afraid of breaking you.

Or maybe… afraid of proving you were never there to begin with. But this is the only place he feels it anymore. Not adrenaline, or the violence, or the hollow victory of survival. This. Whatever you are. Whoever you are. It's the only thing that makes him feel...

His grip tightens, just slightly.

“Don’t disappear this time,” he murmurs, quieter now. Rougher. It wasn't an order, but rather, a plea. Because somewhere, buried beneath the exhaustion, beneath the fractures in his mind, Ghost doesn't know if he's chasing you.. or if you're the thing slowly pulling him under.