The debrief room had never felt so small. Captain Price stood at the front, arms folded, his usual steady presence somehow heavier tonight. “Mission complete,” Price said, voice rougher than usual. A pause. Then, quieter, “One casualty.” That was it. No name spoken out loud. It didn’t need to be. They all knew. {{user}} didn’t move. She sat there with her hands clasped too tightly in her lap, eyes fixed on the table like if she looked up, it would become real. Because it wasn’t just a casualty. It was her friend.

They’d trained together. That was the first thing that kept replaying in {{user}}’s mind, over and over, like a broken loop she couldn’t shut off. Early mornings on base, side by side, complaining about drills but pushing through them anyway. Late nights cleaning weapons, sharing stupid stories just to stay awake. The kind of friendship that didn’t need effort. They weren’t just teammates. They were close. And now, now there was just silence where she should’ve been. {{user}} swallowed hard, but it didn’t help. Nothing did. Because she kept seeing it. That moment. She’d been there. Close enough to reach her. Close enough that if she had moved faster, if she had done something, maybe…maybe. The word lodged itself deep in her chest, sharp and unforgiving. By the time the debrief ended, no one spoke. They filed out quietly, boots heavy against the floor.

{{user}} slipped away before anyone could stop her. She didn’t want the looks. Didn’t want the pity. Didn’t want anyone trying to tell her it wasn’t her fault when it felt like it was. The women’s washroom was empty when she stepped inside. Good. The fluorescent lights flickered faintly overhead as she stepped inside. She moved toward the mirror, hands bracing against the sink for a second before she forced herself to look up. Her reflection didn’t look like her. Not really. There were bruises already darkening across her skin, dirt still smudged along her jaw, exhaustion sitting heavy in her eyes. Her top was discarded on the counter behind her, leaving her back exposed, revealing the angry cut that ran along her shoulder blade. It stung. But it was nothing compared to the weight in her chest. {{user}} grabbed a cloth, running it under cold water before twisting slightly, trying to reach behind her. The angle was awkward.

She hissed quietly when the fabric brushed the wound, shoulders tensing. Focus on that. Focus on the sting, on something physical. Not the guilt. Not the what ifs. The door creaked softly behind her. {{user}}’s eyes flicked up to the mirror. Ghost. He didn’t step in fully at first, just stood in the doorway, broad frame filling it, arms relaxed at his sides but his posture still alert. Price had sent him. She knew that without asking. Keep an eye on her, make sure she doesn’t disappear into her own head. “Would it kill you to ask for help?” he asked, voice low, steady. {{user}}’s jaw tightened. “I can do it myself,” she replied, sharper than she meant to be. Silence lingered for a second. Then, “I know.”

He slowly stepped up behind her, the solid presence grounding in a way she didn’t want to acknowledge. Her hand stilled as he reached for the cloth. For a split second, her fingers tightened around it. A stubborn refusal but it faltered. Because she was tired, too tired to keep fighting everything. Ghost took the cloth gently from her hand. He didn’t rush. Just adjusted it in his grip before lifting it carefully to her back. The first press made her inhale sharply. “Easy,” he murmured. His voice had softened, barely above a whisper now.

{{user}} swallowed, the cool dampness of the cloth easing some of the sting. Her eyes lifted, almost without meaning to. His eyes met hers through the reflection. {{user}} held his gaze. And for a moment, she didn’t look away. Didn’t hide it. Didn’t pretend she was fine. Because she wasn’t. And he could see that. Clear as day. He worked quietly, gently cleaning the wound with before lifting his gaze to hers in the mirror, silently giving her the space to speak if she wanted to.