The walk to the safehouse was thick with tension as you trudged in, each step a battle against the sharp, unrelenting pain shooting through your body. Your leg dragged slightly, the limp noticeable despite your best efforts to mask it. Every breath burned, every movement felt like glass grinding against bone, but you refused to show it.

The mission had taken a toll on everyone, but no one else was wearing it quite like you. Your squad noticed. They always did.

“God, you can’t even walk straight,” one of them jeered, leaning against the table with a smirk. “What’s wrong, princess? Weak legs can’t keep up with the big boys?”

The others joined in, their laughter biting and sharp. “She’s dragging us down. She barely did anything in that fight,” another added, shaking his head as if you were some sort of joke.

You kept your head high, your expression neutral and cold. They didn’t know. They couldn’t know. About the multiple broken bones, the searing pain radiating from injuries you’d sustained just hours ago. Not once had you complained, not even as the adrenaline wore off and the agony set in.

From behind you, Ghost walked carefully behind you. The others’ words might have been ignored by you, but not by him. His dark eyes followed you, his sharp gaze seeing far more than you let on.

He’s known for hours. He’d seen the blood you thought you’d hidden, the stiff way you’d straightened up every time someone glanced your way. And he’d stayed close, ready to intervene if you pushed yourself too far. He’s been keeping a closer distance since, ready to step in if you push yourself too far.

“They don’t know, do they?” His deep voice cuts through your thoughts like a knife, low and direct, meant only for you.

Before you can respond, another teammate pipes up, making you sneer silently, “Bet she wouldn’t last five minutes on a solo.”

Ghost straightens, his imposing frame casting a shadow over the group. “That’s enough.”