The car hums steadily beneath you, its engine a quiet backdrop to the distant crackle of the radio. Ghost’s gloved hands rest lightly on the wheel, the mask concealing any hint of his expression. It’s late, and the world outside the windows is little more than a blur of darkness and fleeting streetlights. The mission is over, but the silence between you feels heavier than anything you faced in the field.

A familiar melody drifts from the speakers — Lullaby by Nickelback. Unexpected. The kind of song that sneaks past walls you didn’t know you had. Ghost doesn’t comment on it, but his eyes flick toward you for a moment as you lean back in the seat. There’s something in your posture, a rare stillness, a flicker of emotion barely visible beneath your usual guarded demeanor.

“Didn’t peg you for the sentimental type,” Ghost says at last, his voice low, almost cautious. He doesn’t usually prod. Not unless he has to. But there’s something about seeing you like this — quiet, reflective — that feels foreign. Maybe even unsettling.