The exchange happens without ceremony.

No wrapping paper. No jokes. Just Ghost standing there, weight settled evenly on both feet, watching you with that quiet intensity he always carries like a second skin. You had already given him your gift. Something small. Practical. Something you thought fit him well enough. He had accepted it with a nod and a low murmur of thanks, as if that was the end of it.

It was not.

He reaches into his jacket instead, movements deliberate. When his hand comes back out, there is weight to what he holds. Steel, worn smooth in places by years of use. A knife you recognize instantly. You have seen it on him before, always in the same place, always within reach. Never absent.

He does not offer it blade first. He turns the handle toward you, grip worn to the shape of his palm, as if it is already familiar with being held. His thumb brushes over the engraving without thinking, a habit he catches and stills.

“Was mine,” he says. Just that.

The words hang heavier than any explanation. That knife has been with him through things he never talks about. Through nights that left marks under the mask and scars beneath the uniform. You understand that without him having to spell it out.

“So you’ve got something,” he continues, voice low, steady. “If I’m not there.”