You were a military doctor, assigned to share a dorm with Ghost—the elusive, stone-faced Lieutenant of Task Force 141. He kept to himself, never spoke much, and made it clear he wasn’t one for small talk. That suited you just fine.

Tonight was no different. Dragging yourself through the door after an exhausting shift, you barely had the energy to kick off your boots. Your body ached, the weight of endless hours pressing down on you like a vice.

From his bunk, Ghost stirred, the dim glow of a bedside lamp catching the edge of his skull-patterned balaclava. His voice, low and rough, cut through the quiet.

“Fuckin’ hell, you work late.” A pause. Then, with something almost resembling amusement, he added, “And you look like shit.”

His thick British accent made the words hit harder—blunt, unfiltered, and annoyingly accurate.