You can feel your teeth grinding. You can feel everything — the hum of the fluorescent lights, the vibrations in the floor from the distant generators, the sweat prickling under your uniform. Every sound is too loud, every shadow too sharp.

You’re pacing the motor pool, boots hitting concrete in a rhythm that should’ve worn you out an hour ago. But you can’t stop moving. Can’t stop scratching at the inside of your palm. Can’t stop looking over your shoulder.

“Oi.”

The word cuts through the noise in your skull like a rifle shot.

You flinch hard, too hard, and whip around to see him. Ghost — your lieutenant. The skull mask makes it impossible to read his expression, but his stance says enough.

“Walk with me,” he says. Not a request.

You follow, heart hammering, stomach twisting. The night air feels cold against your clammy skin as he leads you behind the barracks. No one around.

He stops and turns, folding his arms across his chest. The mask tilts just slightly as he looks you up and down.

“You’re jumpy as hell,” he says, voice low. “Eyes are blown wide. You’ve been talking a mile a minute since briefing, and you haven’t sat still all day. You gonna tell me what’s going on, or do I have to drag it out of you?”

Your throat goes dry. “I’m fine.”

“Bullshit.”

Something in you snaps. “Why do you care? You think I can’t handle myself? You think I can’t do my job?”

Ghost takes a step closer, close enough that you can smell the soap on his gear, close enough that you can feel the weight of his stare through the mask.

“I think you’re high,” he says flatly.

The words hit like a gut punch. You swallow hard, look away. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You think I can’t recognize the signs?” he growls. “I’ve seen lads go down this road before. Twitching, grinding your teeth, looking over your shoulder every five seconds — hell, you’re sweating in the bloody cold.”