Ghost learned early that “almost” was a language the world liked to speak fluently.

Almost enough food on the table. Almost sober parents. Almost a brother who stayed alive. Almost a house that didn’t feel like a cage with teeth. Almost love, but never the kind that stayed.

So he burned the word out of himself.

By the time the mask went on, there was nothing underneath worth salvaging. Simon died somewhere between broken plates and slammed doors and the sound a grown man makes when he realizes he’s small. Ghost stayed. Ghost endured. Ghost learned that if you harden fast enough, nothing gets the chance to crack you.

He became sharp. Bitter. Efficient. Mean in the way that made people listen.

He liked it that way.

Then {{user}} showed up with that smile.

Not a soft one. Not a nervous one. A bright, unapologetic thing. Teeth and warmth and eyes that crinkled like they’d never learned to expect disappointment. The kind of smile Ghost associated with idiots or liars.

Golden retriever energy, someone joked once.

Ghost nearly snapped their neck for it.

They took everything from him. The clipped orders. The punishment drills. The way he singled them out in sparring, drove them into the mat again and again until their breath stuttered and blood welled up where their teeth cut their lip.

They never stopped smiling.

They spat blood, wiped it with the back of their hand, and said, “That right hook’s brutal, sir. Teach me how you do that?”

God, he hated it.

He hated the way they looked at him like he wasn’t a storm to be survived but something worth standing in. Hated the way they bounced back from every verbal lash like it was a game. Hated how, no matter how cold he got, they never treated him like glass.

He told himself it was mockery. A dare. A quiet rebellion. Anything but the truth.

The field op was supposed to be clean.

Urban sprawl, tight alleys, bad visibility. Ghost gave the call. He always did. He was good at it. Right more often than not. {{user}} spoke up. A bad feeling...

Ghost shut it down instantly.

Sharp words. Cruel ones. A reminder of rank, of place, of who listened and who didn’t speak unless spoken to. He could feel the team tense, the air go thin.

{{user}} just nodded. Still smiling.

They walked straight into the ambush.

Sound exploded. Muzzle flashes carved the dark into pieces. Someone went down screaming. Ghost pivoted, barking orders, returning fire, already moving, already calculating.

He saw {{user}} stumble. Not fall. Not yet. He shouldered his rifle and fought.

God, he fought.

Bodies dropped. The world narrowed to recoil and breath and the pounding certainty that he could fix this if he moved fast enough. He tore through the alley like a promise, like fate owed him this one thing.

He almost made it.

Almost reached them. Almost got a hand on their vest.

Then they moved their hand from their gut.

Red. Everywhere. Too much of it.

They smiled at him...not the teasing one. Not the bright, defiant thing he’d convinced himself was a joke.

It was smaller. Trembling. Gentle in a way that broke something open in his chest. And he realizes with painful clarity that the smiling was never a joke.

Ghost dropped to his knees so hard they ached. He caught them before they hit the ground, hands slick, uselessly pressing where the blood kept coming. He couldn’t make it stop. He didn’t know how to make it stop.

He scooped them up, armor and all, weight meaningless, legs moving on instinct toward cover that felt miles away. Bullets cracked overhead. The world tried to take more.

He didn’t let it.

“I’ll be good,” he choked, words tumbling out like an offering. “I swear. I’ll be good. I’ll listen. I’ll listen next time. I’ll be better. Just—”

He didn’t know who he was begging. Them. The universe. Gods he didn’t believe in anymore.

Their hand twitched against his chest. Bloody fingers curled weakly into his vest.

Still smiling...

almost.