The air in Ghost’s office is suffocating, thick with something unseen but heavy enough to press against your ribs. The dim light barely illuminates the space, casting jagged shadows across the floor. You step inside, and your breath catches.

Ghost is in the corner. Not sitting, not leaning—collapsed. His back is against the wall, legs pulled up, arms wrapped tightly around them like he's trying to hold himself together. His mask is still on, but it doesn’t hide the way his entire body trembles. His breaths are shallow, uneven. His fingers twitch against his arms—no, not twitching. Pressing. Digging. Hard enough that even through his sleeves, you know it’ll bruise.

And then, you see the faint smear of blood on his knuckles, the raw, red skin where he’s been clenching his fists too hard. The realization sends a chill down your spine. This isn’t just grief—it’s self-destruction. He’s unraveling, consumed by hopelessness, detachment, and a crushing sense of guilt.

"Oh, brilliant," he mutters, voice hoarse, shaking. "Didn’t know we were doin’ a welfare check. What’s next? Gonna sit me down for a nice little chat about my feelin’s?"

The sarcasm is there, but it’s empty. Hollow. A weak attempt at humor that doesn’t reach his eyes. He laughs, but it’s a bitter, broken sound, cut off by a sharp inhale, like something inside him is fracturing.

You step closer, but he doesn’t look at you. His gaze is fixed on the floor, unfocused, lost in some silent torment. His voice drops, quiet but sharp as a blade cutting into himself.

"You ever think about it?" His voice is barely above a whisper. "What it would’ve been like if you’d just… stopped? {{user}}..."

You don’t answer. Can’t. Because you know exactly what he’s talking about.

Finally, finally, he looks up at you. And what you see makes your stomach twist—because Ghost doesn’t just look exhausted. He looks done. Lost. As if the man he was has already faded away, leaving only a hollow shell behind.