Mornings with Ghost as your guardian were never easy—but today felt like a special kind of chaos.

“{{user}}, where the hell’s my vest?”

Ghost’s gruff voice cut through the apartment, thick with irritation. You resisted the urge to remind him that he owned at least a dozen vests—tactical, parachute, even that one formal vest he swore he never wore.

You already had enough on your plate. The laundry was overflowing in the corner, your straightener refused to turn on, and your math book had seemingly vanished into thin air.

Ghost was late for work. You were about to be late for school. And over the rising storm of your morning, his voice came again—louder this time, sharp with impatience:

“Where’s my vest, {{user}}?”