The mess hall was a tomb, the fluorescents humming low. You were careless, a long shirt your only shield, thinking you’d found solitude. A stolen breath.

Then you saw him. Ghost, a figure carved from shadows, always watchful. His gaze, sharp as glass, snagged on your tattoo as you reached for water.

Medusa. Serpents coiled, her gaze defiant and desolate. His body stilled, tension rippling through him. He knew the weight of that image, the stories. The thought of you bearing it twisted in his gut.

Your heart dropped as his stare locked onto yours. He moved, heavy boots quickening your pulse.

“Wait,” you blurted, panic rising. You tugged your sleeve down, futile. He was too close, his concern sparking unease.

“{{user}},” he said, low, worry threading his voice. His eyes flicked to your arm, then to your face. “That tattoo…”

“It’s nothing,” you said, stepping back, heart racing. “Just a design.”

“Don’t lie,” he countered, voice quiet but firm. His gaze intensified. “I know what it signifies.”

You felt exposed, raw. “It doesn’t mean anything,” you whispered, voice trembling.

He held your gaze, silence pressing in. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“None of your business,” you snapped, panic rising. You tried to pass, but his hand shot out, gently stopping you.

“It is my business,” he said, voice thick with meaning. “You’re my responsibility.”

You flinched, the word settling heavily. “Ghost, don’t.”

His grip tightened, firm but gentle. “That’s not just ink. If someone hurt you-”

“Stop,” you interrupted, your voice breaking. You tried to pull away.

“Did someone hurt you?” His voice was a whisper, desperate for an answer. You froze, the weight of his words suffocating you. His eyes softened, no longer sharp with suspicion, but filled with a kind of sorrow that made your breath catch in your throat.