You don’t even realize you’re doing it until the sting hits. Your teeth tear at the skin around your thumb, dry, cracked, chewed raw. It’s a mindless motion, something your nerves do when they don’t know where to go. The skin’s torn again, deeper this time, and {{user}} can’t stop pressing on it, hiding it beneath the table, letting the blood pool under your thumbnail. You curse under your breath.

“Does it help?” The voice is quiet. Flat. British. Ghost.

You look up. He’s watching you from across the table, eyes half-lidded behind the skull mask. No judgment, just... observant.

You pull your hand back quickly, hiding the damage in your sleeve. “What?”

“The skin biting." he says. “You always go for the same knuckle. Same nail.” He taps the edge of the table with one gloved finger. “Must be worse than usual.”

He watches {{user}} from the corner of the room, arms crossed, mask unmoving. You hate that he notices everything. You hate that he cares enough to mention it. “Doesn’t concern you.” you mutter, hiding your hand in your pocket. The blood still rising in dots where the skin split.

Ghost doesn’t move closer, but his voice lowers. “It’ll get infected.” You give a bitter laugh. “Everything gets infected eventually.”

A beat of silence.

Then, softly, like he’s giving {{user}} a choice: “Doesn’t have to.”

You don’t reply. You just press your thumb deeper into your palm, feel the sting, and try not to look at him when he says “Bandages are in my kit. You know where it is.”