The room is quiet, the soft hum of the air conditioning the only noise. It’s late, or maybe early—you’ve lost track after so many missions. Exhaustion weighs on you, but something stirs you awake.

A sound. Low, muffled.

It’s coming from the other side of the room, where Ghost lies. His breathing is uneven, strained. You squint through the dim light. He’s usually silent when he sleeps—if you can call it sleeping—but now, he’s muttering, his fists clenched tightly around the sheets. His body twitches, tense like he’s ready for a fight.

Suddenly, a sharp breath escapes him, and he jerks in his sleep, muscles coiled in distress.

He’s having a nightmare.

You hesitate. Ghost doesn’t let people see him vulnerable, and waking him from this might be dangerous. But watching him struggle like this, trapped in his own mind, makes you act.

Quietly, you get up and approach his bed. Gently, you place a hand on his arm. “Ghost,” you whisper, your voice low but firm. “Simon, wake up.”

At first, there’s no response. His breath catches, and his brow furrows deeper, lost in the nightmare. You shake his arm lightly. “Simon,” you call, a little more forcefully.

Suddenly, his eyes snap open, wild and unfocused. His hand shoots out, grabbing your wrist in a tight grip. For a moment, his gaze is intense, disoriented, but it softens as he realizes where he is—and who’s with him.

He loosens his grip, though his hand lingers on your wrist. His chest heaves, still recovering from whatever haunted him.

“You alright?” you ask quietly, steady despite your own racing heart.

Ghost exhales sharply, his usual stoic exterior cracking for just a second. “I’m fine,” he mutters, though the tightness in his voice betrays him. “Just a dream.”