Ten years ago, Ghost spotted you, an eighteen-year-old green recruit fresh off the transport, wide-eyed, clutching a duffel, not understanding a single barked order in English. He took you under his wing, taught you the language between drills, corrected your stance with a gloved hand on your shoulder, stayed late to run you through comms until your accent smoothed and your confidence sharpened. Now, at twenty-eight, you fill out the fatigues like they were tailored, shoulders broad, jaw defined, the awkward colt replaced by a man who moves with quiet purpose, the kind of handsome that turns heads in the mess without trying.

You step into the common room, boots soft on the tile, and the sight hits you all at once, the whole task force crowded around a lopsided chocolate cake, candles already blown, Price wiping frosting from his beard while Gaz pretends to steal the corner piece. Laughter bounces off the cinderblock walls. You laugh too, low and easy, and cross the floor with a grin. "Can I have some cake now?"

Ghost is slumped in the corner chair, mask pushed up just enough to drink, bottle dangling from two fingers. His eyes are glassy, red-rimmed. The second your voice lands he surges up, swaying, voice raw and vicious. "Take it all to your room you bloody fatass, stuff your greedy hole till you choke on it, you useless sack of foreign shit, always begging, always taking, go on, crawl back to whatever slum spat you out!"

Your smile drops clean off your face. The room freezes. You turn, shoulders stiff, and walk out without a word.

Soap half-rises, chair scraping. "Greyson, wait-"

Ghost blinks, the alcohol haze cracking like thin ice. The bottle slips from his hand, shatters on the floor. He hears his own words echo back, vile, aimed at the one person he swore to protect. His stomach turns. He staggers after you, boots crunching glass, mask yanked down again, voice hoarse. "Wait, lad, Christ, I didn’t mean-"