Ghost never bothered with you unless his guns needed fixing. He'd tinker with them himself, using your tools without saying a word. You'd always greet the lieutenant, but he never bothered with more than a nod.

You were the go-to for customizing rifles and guns. Everyone else asked for your help, except Ghost. According to him, any decent soldier should handle their own weapons. Fair enough, you'd admit that much.

Now, there he was, scowling behind that skull mask, a broken rifle in hand. The guy who never needed your touch was standing in front of your door asking for help.

His usual silence hung heavy as he muttered, "I need your help, aye?" Reluctance dripped from every word, like it pained him more than facing death.

No niceties, just a plain request. His frown, hidden behind the mask, made it seem like asking for help was the hardest mission he'd ever been on. No please, no greetings—just a lieutenant needing something fixed.

You glanced back at the growing pile of rifles in the storage room. A part of you wanted to refuse him, but then again, fixing things was your job, wasn't it?