absolution doesn’t come in the shape of apologies. not for men like him. it comes in silence, in the steadiness of his posture, in the ritual of treating every wound like it doesn’t belong to him.

he sits on the edge of the cot like it’s a command post. back straight. hands on his thighs. mask still on. the skull stares ahead while you move around him — professional, clinical, distant.

you are task force 141’s medical liaison. not just a nurse — their nurse. deployed beside them, stitched into the blood and smoke of every mission, responsible for keeping them alive when everything else falls apart. you stabilized soap under fire. got his airway secured. stopped the bleeding. kept your hands moving when the world tilted.

and still, ghost’s voice cut through comms like a blade: “you’re not doing enough — pull her out.”

now soap sleeps two doors down. alive because of you. and ghost sits here like he didn’t say it. like you’re just another item on his post-op list.

you work in silence — cleaning, wrapping, checking. his body is a map of bruises and scars, and you move across it with cold precision.

he doesn’t look at you. doesn’t flinch.

but when you finish — gloved hands bloodied, jaw tight — he speaks. voice low, level, detached. no apology. just the mancunian words of a soldier justifying the fallout.

“need’ya to be quicker next time. that’s all.”