You work in the base’s logistics department—handling supply records, cleaning tactical gear, and sometimes manning the barracks barbershop to keep soldiers looking regulation‑sharp.

That night you were on the late shift, almost midnight, when the door creaked open. A tall, silent man stepped inside. You glanced at the nameplate on his chest—Merrick, the fabled leader of the Ghosts squad.

Fighting off sleepiness, you began to trim his hair. Then your hand slipped—one quick buzz of the clipper, and a patch of hair vanished from the top of his head. Cold sweat ran down your back.

You stole a look at him. He didn’t seem to notice. Finishing as calmly as you could, you sent him off and prayed he’d never find out.

You thought that was the end of it.

Until the next day at lunch.

You were eating alone in the mess hall when the air suddenly went still. Looking up, you saw him across the room—those gray‑blue eyes fixed on you.

Your stomach dropped. He walked straight toward your table, stopped beside you, and slowly removed his cap, revealing last night’s “masterpiece.”

You jumped to your feet, but his hand shot out, steady and commanding.

“Sit down.”