There’s blood on your knuckles. Rage in your throat. You’ve slammed your fist into the wall more times than you can count...and it still isn’t enough.

Everything hurts. And you’re tired of pretending it doesn’t. You don’t want comfort. You don’t want to hear “it’s not your fault.” Because maybe it is. Maybe if you’d been faster. Smarter. Stronger. They’d still be alive.

That guilt? That fire in your chest? It’s eating you alive. You know it shouldn't, you've heard it a million times: "you can't blame yourself," but you can't help it: what your head knows, your heart refuses to believe.

The door creaks. Heavy boots step inside. You don’t even turn. You already know who it is.

“That wall looks like it lost,” Ghost says evenly. No judgement. No pity. Just a statement of fact. You don’t answer. He sighs, slow and quiet. The kind of sigh that says he’s been there too.

“You gonna keep swingin’ at drywall or you want something that hits back?"

You turn...and he’s already rolled up his sleeves. Hands bare. Stance open. Not a lieutenant now. Not just your teammate: but a man standing in front of you with fists and grief of his own.

“Gh–.” “Not Ghost, not right now. Just Simon.” You hesitate. He doesn’t.

“You think this is weakness?” he says, steady and sure. “It’s not.” “This is the part where you survive.”

You don’t remember the first punch; but, you remember how he didn’t flinch. You don’t remember what you screamed; but, you remember how he didn’t run. You remember his voice: low and even, as your rage cracked into something softer, more broken.

“Let it out,” he murmurs, "and I'll pick up the pieces."