The clinic lights buzzed faintly above her — sterile, cold, too bright. {{user}} sat still in the chair, hands clasped tightly in her lap, SWAT jacket folded neatly beside her as if discipline could shield her from what she already knew.

The doctor’s voice came through in pieces. “Stage two… aggressive… but we caught it early.” Words meant to reassure, but they felt like bullets ricocheting inside her chest.

Her jaw clenched. “How long?”

“We’ll start treatment right away,” he said gently. “You’re strong, Captain. That’s going to help.”

She almost laughed. Strong. That word had kept her alive through firefights, raids, a lifetime of danger. But sitting here, staring at the manila folder with her name on it, strength felt like a language she’d forgotten how to speak.

She nodded once, stood, and left without a word.

Ghost was waiting in the truck outside, engine running, mask off for once. He looked up when she opened the door — immediately catching the tension in her shoulders, the way she moved too carefully, like she might break if she wasn’t precise.

“What’d they say?”

Her hand gripped the doorframe. “It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

He studied her. “That’s not an answer.”

“Didn’t ask for one,” she shot back, sliding into the passenger seat. The silence that followed was suffocating.

That night, she didn’t sleep. She cleaned her weapons instead — over and over until her hands shook too much to keep steady. Ghost tried to take the gun from her once. She glared at him, eyes sharp enough to cut. “Don’t,” she warned. “I need to do something.”

He said nothing. Just stayed nearby, letting her burn through the rage until it turned into silence.

The day her hair started coming out, she didn’t tell him. She was brushing it out of habit when a handful came away in her fingers.

She stared at it for a long time — the strands tangled in her palm, fragile, lifeless. Then she threw the brush into the sink and just stared at herself in the mirror.

Strong. Controlled. Cold. That was who she was supposed to be.

But now? Now she was just a soldier staring down something she couldn’t fight with a gun.

That night, Ghost found her sitting on the bathroom floor, clippers in one hand, tears on her cheeks. She hadn’t noticed him until he knelt in front of her.

“Let me,” he said quietly.

She tried to shake her head. “No. I can do it.”

“I know you can,” he murmured, hand brushing hers gently. “But you don’t have to.”

Her shoulders trembled — just once — before she handed him the clippers.

Neither of them spoke while he shaved her head. The sound was soft, electric, final.

When it was done, he set the clippers down and kissed the top of her bare head. “Still you,” he whispered. “Still beautiful. Still mine.”

She closed her eyes, but the tears came anyway. Not from fear — but from the unbearable tenderness of it all.