TThe safehouse is quiet — too quiet for how loud your thoughts are.

The mission’s over. The radio’s dead. You’re not. You keep repeating that part to yourself, but your hands won’t stop shaking. Every time you blink, the flashes come back — the muzzle fire, the scream, the sound of your own breath choking itself.

You press your palms against the floor, trying to feel something real, but all you can feel is static.

The door creaks. Heavy boots. Measured steps. You know that rhythm — calm, precise, deliberate.

“Hey,” Ghost says. Just that. One word, low and rough, grounding you before you even look up.

You don’t answer, but you feel him before you see him — the faint shift in the air as he crouches down a few feet away. Not close enough to corner you, not far enough to feel distant.

“Breathe,” he says quietly. “You’re still here.”

You shake your head. You don’t feel here. You feel miles away, buried under noise and fire and guilt.

His gloves creak as he adjusts his stance, lowering himself until he’s sitting on the floor beside you. The metal of his gear clicks softly — small, familiar sounds. You focus on those instead of the panic clawing at your chest.

“Look at me,” he says. It’s not a command. It’s a request.

You do. Slowly.

His mask catches the dim light, skull pattern barely visible in the shadows. His eyes meet yours — steady, unreadable, but not cold.

“There you go.”

He breathes in slow, deliberate rhythm. Inhale. Exhale. Then again. Until you start to match him without realizing it.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, voice softer now. “Atta girl.”

The storm outside picks up, thunder rolling low. He glances toward the window, then back at you. “Always hated storms,” he admits, tone distant. “Too much noise. Can’t tell what’s close and what’s just echo.”

It’s the most he’s said in hours. You find yourself focusing on that voice — quiet, rough around the edges, steady as a heartbeat.

“You did good today,” he adds. “Better than you think.”

You shake your head again. “I panicked.”

“You breathed,” he says simply. “That’s enough.”

His hand moves, gloved fingers brushing the floor just beside yours. Not a touch — not yet. Just presence. Enough to feel the warmth radiating through the space between you.