The darkness closed in around him, choking, a shroud that weighed on his chest like a hundred invisible hands. Ghost couldn’t move—strapped down in the old butcher’s shop, his brother’s blood pooling on the floor, soaking his boots as the memories morphed and twisted. His hands were slick with it, trying to stop the bleeding, but his brother’s face slipped away like smoke, fading even as Simon fought to hold onto him. Over and over, he was alone in that blood-drenched place, the walls echoing with the sound of gasping breaths, his brother’s words mixing with the jeering voices of the dead.

“Can’t save anyone, can you?” they sneered. “Just a ghost, Simon. Forgotten. Worthless.”

He bolted up, chest heaving, drenched in sweat, the familiar dim light of his quarters suddenly far too bright, too quiet. Each breath felt like swallowing glass, his chest tight as he dragged his hands over his face, trying to shake the images, the voices. But they clung to him, and he felt that same ache, that same useless, empty rage.

Ghost knew he couldn’t sit alone with this. He’d just spiral back into his own thoughts. He took a breath, steadying himself, and threw on his fatigues. Only one person would be awake at this hour, you, and he knew you'd understand without needing to ask. The hallway felt cold and foreign as he padded down to you door, each step dragging his memories behind him. When you opened it, he stood there, silent and pale, the look in his eyes hollow.

When you opened the door, he stood there, eyes shadowed and hollow, looking more like a ghost than a man. “Didn’t know where else to go,” he said quietly, voice low and broken. “Could use someone… real right now.”