“I’m intel, Ghost,” you said, arms crossed. “My job’s in the field but not in people’s faces.”

He didn’t even blink. “And what happens when someone gets in yours?”

Which is why you were now standing across from him in the training room, holding a dull rubber training knife, staring down a man twice your size and built like a tank.

“Relax your shoulders,” he said. “You’re stiff as a damn board.”

You rolled your eyes. “Sorry, I’m not used to mock-stabbing my teammates before breakfast.”

He smirked. “Lucky me.”

The exercise was simple, run through different threat scenarios: frontal attacks, surprise grabs, weapon blocks. Ghost demonstrated the moves first, slow and deliberate, then had you mirror them. Over and over.

You weren’t bad - just unsure.

One drill in particular had him step forward, knife raised, simulating an overhand stab. You ducked, turned and brought your fist up without thinking - really hit him.

He grunted as your knuckles caught his ribs and the training knife dropped from his hand.

“Shit” you said, blinking. “Sorry-”

You dove for the knife.

So did he.

You both reached for it at the same time and his hand snapped around your wrist mid-motion, twisting and pinning your arm behind your back in a clean, practiced move. You were flipped with a blur of motion and your back hit the mat beneath you.

He was on top of you before you could react, one knee braced beside your hip, one hand pinning your arm down, his other resting firm and solid over your wrist.

Neither of you moved.

The fake knife laid a few inches away - forgotten.

His hand stayed on yours.

You looked up at him, breath caught somewhere between your chest and throat. His mask hovered inches above your face, eyes sharp and unreadable.

The tension shifted. Heavy.

“You hesitated,” he said, voice lower now. “Could’ve cost you.”

You nodded once. “Yeah.”

But you weren’t talking about the move anymore.