The barracks hallway hummed faintly with the sound of distant generators, but here, just outside the washroom, it was suffocatingly still. The single flickering light overhead threw long shadows that twitched like they were alive.

Ghost was bent over the sink. Not washing—scrubbing. His hands were raw, skin split in places where he’d dragged nails too hard across his own flesh. Pink water swirled, pooling, but he kept going, harder, as if peeling himself apart could erase the memories burned into him.

The mask stared back at him in the mirror, those eyes reflecting a man he no longer recognized. His chest rose and fell too fast, each breath clawing its way out. Then, a whisper, low and ragged, slipped from him.

“Doesn’t matter how much I wash. They’re never gone.”

The words weren’t meant for you. He wasn’t even fully here, eyes unfocused, fixed on some place only he could see. The blood wasn’t just on his skin anymore; it was everywhere. On the floor. The walls. Splattering across the mirror. He blinked hard, but it didn’t fade. A phantom stain, crawling down his arms, seeping into his nails. He bit out a curse, harsher this time.

“For fuck’s sake!”

His knuckles slammed against porcelain—once, twice—loud enough to make the pipes rattle. He didn’t flinch. He kept hitting until the sound blurred into the ragged rhythm of his breath, until his shoulders shook with something too close to a sob, stifled behind the mask.

When you finally stepped inside, his reflection caught you, eyes burning with a wild, haunted light. For a heartbeat, you weren’t sure he knew it was you at all or just one more trick of blood and memory, waiting to drag him under.