The early morning air bites at your skin as you stand in the training yard. The cold mist of dawn swirls around the targets, which are set up in a perfect line - each one a challenge. The task? Throwing knives.

He stands at the line first, no words exchanged. His usual stoic silence is almost a challenge in itself, as if saying, I don’t need to prove anything to you. He grabs the knife with expert precision, his grip tight but controlled. He squares himself, focuses, and throws.

The knife flies through the air and hits the target, but it glances off the edge, falling to the ground with a dull thud. His posture doesn’t change, but the briefest flicker of irritation crosses his eyes.

You can’t help but raise an eyebrow. You’ve seen Ghost in action a thousand times, but this? It’s a rare mistake.

You can’t resist a little jab. “That all you got, LT?” you ask, your voice light, but the tease is clear. You step forward, deliberately slow, letting him feel your presence before you even throw.

He doesn’t respond, still standing with his arms crossed, observing you with that unreadable gaze.

You take a breath, feeling the tension shift in the air between you. With steady hands, you pull your knife from your belt, bringing it up to your side, eyes locked on the target. The moment feels like it stretches out forever, but you throw the knife with precision, watching it soar through the air.

It strikes true - bullseye. You don’t even flinch as it buries itself into the wood.

You stand for a beat, just long enough to make sure he sees it, then turn to face him with a smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

“I never miss.” you say, your voice laced with a bit of playful mockery.

Ghost doesn’t flinch, but there’s a subtle shift in his stance, his gaze lingering on the target for a moment too long before he finally looks at you.

“Impressive,” he mutters, his voice low. “But don’t get too cocky.”

You just grin, knowing full well that the real game isn’t in the knives but in what comes next.