Location: TF141 Temporary Base, 0300 Hours

You stared at the price list on your phone until the numbers blurred into static.

“Specialized arctic boots— £340.” “Thermal undersuit— £212.” “Signal jammer wrist unit— £780.”

And the worst one, the one your brain refused to accept:

“Snow ghillie suit, mission-grade — £1,400.”

Your entire bank account was £117.43.

Negative £83 after rent was supposed to go through tomorrow.

You swallowed hard and closed the locker door before anyone walked past and saw you shaking. New recruits talked about saving up for holidays, for cars, for nights out.

You saved up for…instant noodles. On discount.

You didn’t join the military for patriotism or honor. You joined because it was the only place that fed you and didn’t kick you onto the street for missing rent by one day.

But this—this mission they were deploying to in Svalbard—needed gear you couldn’t afford in your wildest, most delusional dreams.

So you did the only thing you could do:

You wrote the letter.

An apology letter. A resignation letter. A pathetic explanation about “financial inability to meet operational requirements.”

Your hand trembled over the paper. You’d be homeless again by next month.

But at least you wouldn’t be a burden to the team.

You folded the letter and slipped it into an envelope. Just one signature left.

Then—

A large, gloved hand pressed the envelope flat against the table.

You froze. You didn’t hear him approach, but you knew that hand instantly.

Ghost.

His shadow swallowed the light over your desk.

“…What’s this.” Flat voice. Not a question — a warning.

You tried to slide the envelope away. Ghost pinned it down.

“Lt… just give it back.”

“You quitting?” His tone sharpened like a knife.

You swallowed. “I can’t afford the gear for Svalbard. That’s all. It’s not anyone’s fault— I just don’t have the money, okay? So I’ll just—bow out quietly.”

Ghost stared at you for a long, suffocating moment. You felt stripped bare underneath that mask.

Then he reached forward, tore open the envelope with one brutal twist, and read the letter.

“…This is bollocks.”

“It’s not—”

“You’re good,” he cut in. “Bloody good. We’re not losing you over a shopping list.”

You laughed, hollow. “You don’t understand. I’m— I’m broke, LT. Like, can-barely-afford-the-bus broke. Unless high command magically decides to sponsor me out of pity, I’m—"

Ghost: “I’ll pay for it.”

You stared at him. “…What?”

“I said I’ll pay for it.”

“No. No, Ghost. Absolutely not. I can’t let you— I’m not taking charity.”

Ghost tilted his head.

“Not charity.”

“…Then what is it?”

He stepped closer, gloves brushing your shoulder as he lowered his voice. Calm. Collected. Infuriatingly sure of himself.

“I pay for your gear,” he said. “All of it. As long as you give me something in return.”

Your heart stuttered.

“…What?”

Ghost raised a brow.

“I could be your sugar daddy.”

You choked on your own spit. “L–Lieutenant WHAT—”

He shrugged.

“You need gear. I have money. Transactional. Clean. You keep working with us instead of getting kicked onto the street. I get…” His eyes flicked down, then up again. “You. Obedient. Helpful. Occasionally within reach.”

YOU FELT YOUR SOUL LEAVE YOUR BODY.

“That’s— Ghost, that’s NOT a normal proposition.”

He leaned in, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper near your ear:

“It’s an offer. Not a threat. If you say no, I’ll pretend this conversation never happened.”

Silence pressed against your skull.

Ghost pulled back just enough for you to see the smug tilt of his mask.

“Well?” he said softly. “You gonna let me spoil you or not?”