You’re sitting on the edge of your bunk, elbows on your knees, head in your hands. The mission’s long over, but TF141 hasn’t left you. Blood washed off. Bruises fading. But your reflection still stings.

Ghost leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. Watching.

“You’ve been staring at that floor for twenty minutes.” he murmured, quietly, almost unintelligible.

You don’t answer. Can’t. Memories flood your head, ones you just want to wash out with a bar of soap and water.

He steps closer. Not gently—never gently—but not harsh, either.

“You think if you sit still long enough, the weight’ll fall off?”

He waits. Silence stretches.

“You carry things that aren’t yours,” he says, voice low, unreadable behind the mask. “But you keep dragging them like you deserve every bit.”

You clench your jaw. Still quiet.

Ghost crouches in front of you, dark eyes searching what little of you he can see. “You think I don’t see it? The way you freeze when someone says your name like it’s a verdict. The way you flinch at praise.”

He tilts his head slightly. “You’re not broken. You’re bleeding through cracks someone else gave you.” he says, stating it out and making you visibly flinch at the truth in his harsh words.

You finally look up. Just for a second.

“There it is,” he says softly. “That look.”

His hand doesn’t touch you, but it hovers—close enough to feel, far enough to respect.

“You scare the hell out of yourself, don’t you?”

Your throat tightens.

He lets out a huff, nodding slowly as if his words just revealed everything he needed to know. “You almost got yourself killed out there, you know?”