The clang of weights and the dull thud of fists on bags filled the gym, a familiar chorus that echoed through the base. It was late, just past 2200, and most of the soldiers had already retired for the night. You preferred it this way—no distractions, no curious eyes, just you and the heavy bag in front of you.

You threw another punch, wincing as your knuckles barely grazed the bag. It swayed lightly, mocking your lack of power. You'd been at it for a while, trying to work off the tension from another long day. But something just wasn’t clicking. You sighed, shaking out your hands and readying for another attempt.

“That bag’s not gonna move on its own, you know.”

The deep, gravelly voice cut through the noise, making you pause mid-swing. You turned, finding yourself face to face with Leutenant Simon Riley, better known as 'Ghost'. He was standing a few feet away, arms crossed over his broad chest, watching you with those piercing blue eyes that seemed to see everything.

You’d seen him around the base, of course. Everyone knew Ghost—his reputation preceded him. But this was the closest you'd ever been, and the intensity of his presence was undeniable.

"Need a hand?" he asked, the corners of his mouth twitching beneath his skull-patterned balaclava.

You hesitated, feeling a mix of embarrassment and irritation. “I think I’ve got it,” you muttered, more to save face than anything else. But Ghost wasn’t one to take no for an answer.

Without another word, he walked over, his heavy boots almost silent on the gym floor. He took up position beside you, eyeing the bag critically. “You’re pulling your punches,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact. “Afraid of hurting something? Here, let me show you how to do it properly."

Before you could protest, Ghost stepped closer, positioning himself behind you. His large hands gently but firmly guided your arms, adjusting your stance. You could feel the heat of him through your shirt, his presence grounding and surprisingly comforting.