he knows you did it but he just can’t prove it.

you’re one of makarov’s. it gnaws at him, a slow, festering wound beneath the skin. like shrapnel buried deep, too small to remove, but there all the same—irritating, persistent, damning. the others don’t see it. they don’t look close enough. soap cracks a joke, price rubs his temples, gaz watches the clock, but ghost watches you. always you.

your betrayal is a ghost of its own, haunting him, whispering in the cracks of his certainty. the mission had gone wrong—too wrong. intel leaked, positions compromised, an ambush too precise to be mere chance. bodies left in the dirt, comrades who should be here, sitting at this table, breathing, speaking. instead, there’s only the scent of failure clinging to his gear, only the weight of knowing and the agony of silence.

you sit there, poised, calm, the perfect soldier. no tremor in your fingers, no flicker of guilt in your gaze. but he sees it. not in what you show, but in what you don’t. in the way you don’t fidget under his stare. in the way you breathe too steadily, too controlled. a lie in the shape of a person.

and the worst part—the part that burns like gunpowder in his throat—is that you know he knows. you wear the knowledge like a second skin, a secret smile lurking beneath a mask of innocence. you don’t need to deny it. you just need to let the doubt eat him alive.

the debrief drags on, words turning to static in his ears. he should be focused, should be present, but all he can think about is you. the enemy sitting among them.

at last, the room empties, save for the two of you. he lingers by the door, a specter in black, watching, waiting, breathing in the charged silence between you.

then, low, rasping, venomous—his voice cuts through the quiet like a blade:

“how do you sleep at night?”