Three days had passed since the mission fell apart. The team failed, and the weight of that failure sat heavy on your shoulders. You replayed every moment in your head, analyzing every decision, every misstep. You could have changed the outcome. You could have saved it. But doing so would have cost you your life. And that was the part that gnawed at you the most—because a small, twisted part of you wondered if maybe that would have been the better option.

Sleep had become an impossibility. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw the mission unraveling all over again, heard the shouts, the gunfire, the deafening silence that followed. Your body was beyond exhaustion, your eyes bloodshot and stinging, your skin pale and drawn. You looked like a ghost of yourself—like someone who had crawled through hell and never quite made it back.

You had shut yourself away from the team, isolating yourself in your room, hoping that if you disappeared long enough, the guilt might fade. But it didn’t. It only grew heavier, pressing down on your chest like a weight you couldn’t shake.

A knock sounded at your door, steady but firm. You didn’t move. Maybe if you ignored it, they’d go away.

“{{user}}.” The voice was deep, calm, but filled with something softer—concern. Ghost.

There was a pause before he spoke again. “It’s me. Can I come in?”

He wasn’t asking just to ask. He knew something was wrong. And he wasn’t going to leave until you let him in.