How much can change in a single second?

How fast can the world turn upside down with one mistake, one wrong call, one misjudged instinct you thought was right—but it ends like it always does? Explosive. Chaotic. Tragic.

Everything can change.

And for you? It did.

It was supposed to be a short run. A clean op. In and out. Nothing fancy, nothing complex. Just a quick mission.

Except the way it appeared—last minute, sudden, rushed—should’ve been the first red flag. And you felt it. That heavy pit in your stomach the second you got into the vehicle. But Ghost didn’t listen.

He was your Lieutenant. He called the shots. And you? You just drove.

That’s when you heard it.

The ticking.

Eyes met. Too late.

The blast swallowed everything.

The noise. The fire. The pain. And then... nothing.

Darkness.

When you finally opened your eyes again, you weren’t really opening them at all. You were in a hospital bed. Hooked to IVs, pain rolling in waves through your body. But the worst came when your hand instinctively reached for your face—and felt the bandages across your eyes.

Panic hit first. The kind that consumes you whole.

The doctor’s voice was calm, clinical. But the words shattered something inside you.

Possible permanent blindness. 90% chance.

It wasn’t a diagnosis. It felt like a death sentence.

No more fieldwork. No more independence. No more light. The you who existed before was gone, and in her place stood someone unrecognizable.

Ghost didn’t say much. Not at first.

He'd gotten away with only a fractured arm, broken rib and a few bruises. Physically, he was fine. Mentally? Wrecked. He blamed himself. For the mission. For ignoring your instincts. For every what-if that could’ve changed the outcome.

But Ghost being Ghost—he didn’t say that.

He showed it.

Weeks passed in recovery. Adjusting to everything. To stillness. To seeing absolutely nothing. Every day was harder than the last—but you kept moving.

And then came the day you were discharged.

Ghost was the one waiting outside your hospital room. The same man who avoided people like the plague, who buried emotion beneath layers of sarcasm and stoicism, stood at your door.

He held your arm as you walked to his car, and when you hesitated to get in—fear choking your throat—he stayed silent, just letting you feel his presence.

“I’m taking you to my place,” he said.

It wasn’t a question.

You tried to argue. He shut it down. Not coldly—just... final. He’d already made up his mind.

The drive was short. It felt like a lifetime.

When the engine finally cut, your other senses took over. The texture of the seat. The breeze from the open window. The scent of something woodsy and clean—his scent. You heard him move around the car, then his hand gently on your elbow.

“Easy,” he murmured, guiding you into his home.

And for the first time since waking in that hospital, you took steps on your own.

You didn’t see what he saw: the way his entire house had been reshaped in one night. Sharp corners filed down. Furniture rearranged to be flush with the walls. Rugs secured. Dangerous edges gone.

He’d spent the entire night prepping the house—his fortress of solitude—for you. For your safety. For your comfort.

Because somehow, between bullets and broken ribs, he’d stopped seeing you as just another soldier.

Even if you didn’t know it yet… you were the one thing Ghost would never let fall through the cracks again.