Ghost wasn’t pacing. He didn’t pace. But the way he stood by the window in his office, arms crossed, one hand tapping his bicep every few seconds, was the closest he ever got to it.

Your report was due twenty minutes ago. Ghost checked the tablet on his desk again. Still nothing.

Ghost’s eyes flicked to the hallway outside his office again. Empty. He breathed out through his nose. A sharp, irritated sound.

And then suddenly: Footsteps.

Ghost snapped his head toward the door an instant before you appeared, skidding slightly as you stopped in the doorway, breath short, clutching your tablet to your chest.

You stumbled in, breathless, hair a bit messy, uniform slightly askew like you’d run the last twenty meters. You froze when you saw him standing there, massive, masked, and radiating the kind of quiet disappointment that felt worse than shouting.

“S–Sir,” you blurted, straightening. “I’m sorry-”

“Close the door.” Ghost said. Slow. Dangerously calm.

You closed it fast, gulping.

Ghost folded his arms. “You’re almost half an hour late.”