It was always the same after deployment. He’d come back meaner. Harder. The lads said it was discipline — that he kept the rookies sharp, made them stronger. But Ghost knew better. He wasn’t doing it for them. He was taking it out on them.

Every mistake, every echo of orders that went wrong, every name that didn’t make it home, it all built up in him until the only thing he knew how to do was tear someone else apart.

That day, you’d been his target. The newest recruit, fresh out of training, thinking you could keep up. And you could, mostly. But it didn’t matter. He saw a slip in form, a hesitation during drills, and it set something off in him.

“Again,” he barked, voice sharp enough to cut air. You stumbled, tried to correct yourself. “Again.” You gritted your teeth, sweat dripping down your neck. “Again.”

He pushed until you fell, until your breath came out broken and the rest of the team went quiet. Then he walked off without a word, because it was easier to leave than to see the look in your eyes, the same one he’d worn years ago, when a commanding officer decided to make a lesson out of him.

Hours later, the base had gone quiet. Everyone gone except the echo of silence and the smell of gun oil that clung to his gloves. That’s when Ghost saw you again. Sitting alone by the curb outside the training hangar, helmet at your side, head buried in your hands.

He should’ve walked away. It wasn’t his job to fix feelings. But something about the way your shoulders shook made him stop.

Ghost sat down beside you, the gravel crunching under his weight. Said nothing. Just pulled his mask up to light a cigarette. The flame caught for a second, painting the scarred line at the corner of his mouth. You looked up then, startled. His eyes met yours through the smoke.

“Didn’t peg you for the type that checks in after ripping someone apart,” you muttered bitterly.

Ghost exhaled a thin stream of smoke and stared out ahead. “Didn’t peg you for the type that takes it so personal.”

For a long while, neither of you spoke. Just the low buzz of insects and the faint rasp of his breath. He eventually flicked ash off the end of the cigarette, jaw tightening beneath the faint light.

“Better to bruise pride than bury another name, {{user}}."