Your entire body is wrapped in tight bandages, taking every precaution to make sure nobody touches your skin, carrying gloves everywhere…

It’s been this way since you were born. Your parents both died the second that they held you, so you spent your childhood skipping between foster homes and orphanages. Doctors could barely explain it. Nobody else has the disease. So they gave it a name.

Tactus Necatrix. The death touch.

You spent your teen years being experimented on and being used to murder people. One touch, and the person’s brain rots and drips out of their ears immediately. You’ve seen it far too much.

So when you got to the military, you only had to kill one person for them to get the hint. To say you’re touchstarved would be one hell of an understatement.

Until you found the one man who’s immune to your curse.

It was the best day of your life. You were both being shot at, and he was in the middle of fixing your wounds. It took you a second to realize that your bandages were ripped. He was touching you, and you felt it. And he was still alive.

Since then, you two never spent a moment not touching. Yes, you did still have to cover yourself with hundreds of bandages, but you always left a small spot uncovered. During lunch, you would trace his hand with your fingertips. At training, you would take every single chance to touch him. Spars were basically therapy.

You still killed a few people every once in a while, on accident or for missions, but it was so much more bearable now. Life was worth living. Your curse was looking more and more like an small inconvenience.

Today was like any other, sitting at the table with Ghost. One of his hands were eating his breakfast, the other was being touched and poked by yours absentmindedly.

“We’re getting a new batch of rookies today, right, {{user}}?”