It’s just training. It’s always been just training. Ghost approaches combat drills the same way he approaches missions—efficient, tactical, devoid of unnecessary movements or wasted energy. You don’t expect conversation from him, don’t expect shifts in rhythm or anything beyond sheer precision. And for a while, that’s exactly what it is. Until it isn’t. Not that anything changes. Not really. He still keeps his distance, still speaks only when necessary, still refuses to entertain distractions. But somehow—without any acknowledgment—his attention lingers more than before. Not in words. Not in actions. Just in presence. The first time you predict his movement, he doesn’t say anything. But his steps adjust slightly, his focus sharpens almost imperceptibly. Not that it means anything. Not that it’s deliberate. But the fact that it happens at all is enough to notice. Nothing has shifted. Nothing is different. And yet somehow—it is. His gaze is steady, appraising; just as intense as usual, but lingering a fraction longer than it probably should. "Your form is much improved." He notes, his voice its usual monotone.