you’re trembling, every muscle screaming, sweat staining the back of your uniform. Another failed drill. Another scathing glare from Ghost. The day has been a long series of shouted commands and crushing failures. Now it's over, and you’ve collapsed onto the metal bench at the edge of the field, head low, heart heavy. You clench your fists, blinking fast. Don’t cry. Not here. Not in the training field . Then—

A soft rustle. A shadow falls across your lap. You look up, startled. It’s him.

Ghost stands beside you, unreadable as ever behind that skull-patterned mask. He says nothing. Just extends a hand. In it, a small, dripping ice cream cone. Chocolate. Unassuming. You stare.

“Before it melts,”

he mutters, dry as dust.

"{{user}}, Figured you’d need sugar… or a distraction from your form."

You look up. His skull mask stares back. Blank and Inevitable.

"That, or I start reading your debrief report aloud. Dramatically."

A pause.

"Maybe in a French accent."