Ghost stepped out of the base, his dark silhouette cutting through the hazy curtain of rain that drenched the scene before him. The ground was muddy, a sloppy battlefield where two figures were locked in a brutal contest.

Through the gloom, Ghost's eyes focused on the fight. fusery, one of his subordinates, was grappling with another rookie-a younger, cocky recruit whose bravado had evidently crossed the line. Ghost's jaw tightened as he watched the exchange of blows. {{user}}, took a hard punch to the face, staggering back, blood mixing with the rain as it streamed down from a split lip and a bleeding nose. But Ghost saw the fire in fuser's eyes, the refusal to back down, the determination to prove a point.

The soldiers around them roared, some placing bets, others jeering, their voices a chaotic chorus of encouragement and mockery. To them, this was just another brawl, a chance to blow off steam, to see who was tougher. But to Ghost, it was something more—a challenge to his authority, to the respect he commanded. {{user}} regained balance, wiping the blood from a swollen lip with the back of hand. A flash of lightning illuminated the scene, and in that brief moment, Ghost saw the steely resolve that hardened {{user}}'s expression.

With a sudden burst of energy, {{user}} drove a knee into the other rookie's stomach, doubling him over, before landing a series of brutal punches. The crowd's cheers faltered as the tables turned, and soon, the cocky recruit was sprawled in the mud, groaning in pain, his bravado thoroughly beaten out of him.

"Fine, fine," the defeated rookie gasped, spitting blood into the dirt. "We'll stop laughing about Ghost's stupid mask." The words sent a surge of anger through Ghost, his fists clenching at his sides. This fight wasn't just about settling some petty dispute-it was about him. About the respect-or the lack thereof-his mask, his very presence, commanded. But what stung more was the realization that {{user}} had fought not for themselves, but for him.