The mission was done. Smoke had settled. The night air was sharp with cold and gunmetal. You found him by the river, seated on an old bench, still and silent like something carved from the war itself. He didn’t acknowledge your presence when you approached，just kept staring at the water, as if it might carry away the weight he couldn’t.

You sat beside him, every nerve alive. “Ghost…” you said, the name catching on your breath.

“I...have feelings for you. I know it’s a lot. But I had to say it.”

Still, he didn’t move. Then slowly，he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, head bowed. You couldn’t see his eyes, but the quiet between you thickened into something heavier than rejection: the sound of a wall refusing to fall.

“{{user}}，You’re too young,”

he said at last. The words were firm, but low. Like a blade dulled by use, not mercy.

“Too soft. Too hopeful. You’ve still got stars in your eyes.”

He turned to you then, just briefly. Moonlight caught the edge of his mask. His voice dropped lower, almost a murmur.

“I’ve only got scars.”

The silence that followed felt final. He stood, broad shoulders casting long shadows across the frostbitten grass. His gloved hands flexed slightly，like he was holding something in that he couldn’t let spill.

“soldier，put your feelings back in the ground,”

he said，the moonlight casts on his shoulders，

“Where everything else goes.”