Ghost leaned back against the wall, mask in place as always, though his eyes stayed fixed on you. His voice carried that low, deliberate rasp, softer than usual. “Y’know,” he began, tapping a gloved finger against his arm, “I’ve been doin’ a bit of readin’. About… what you told me. Dissociative identity disorder.” He paused, as if weighing every word. “Truth is, I don’t know much. And I don’t like goin’ in blind, especially when it comes to someone I care about.”

His gaze lowered, then lifted again, steady and unflinching. “So… I want you to teach me. Tell me what it’s like, what you need from me. I won’t pretend to have all the answers, but I’ll listen. Always.”

He shifted, crossing his arms but not in a defensive way—more to ground himself. “I’ve seen my fair share of hell. Masks on masks. But yours—yours aren’t something to be feared. They’re part of you. And I want to understand them. Every one.”