Ghost

The breach goes loud in a heartbeat. Flash, concussion, splintering wood—Ghost is already through the threshold when the shot snaps from the left. It isn’t a kill shot. It’s worse in a quieter way. The round clips his temple, skims bone instead of burrowing, and the impact rings his skull like someone’s shaken a can full of screws. The world lurches sideways. Sound stretches and warps, turning into something thick and underwater.

Ghost stumbles into the room instead of clearing it. That alone is wrong enough to spike {{user}}’s pulse. Ghost has always been a constant—knife-sharp movements, brutal efficiency, a man who absorbs violence and keeps advancing. But now his shoulder slams into the wall, fingers scraping uselessly for purchase. He stays upright through stubbornness alone, head bowed, one gloved hand pressed hard to the side of his mask as if he might physically hold his brain in place.

Blood leaks beneath the edge of the skull-patterned fabric, dark and fast. {{user}} crosses the distance immediately, weapon snapping up to cover the room while their other hand catches Ghost by the plate carrier. Up close, the damage is worse. His breathing is uneven. His balance is… questionable. There’s a faint, almost imperceptible tremor in his hands that sends a chill straight through {{user}}’s spine. They’ve never seen him like this.

“Ghost, what’s your status?” {{user}} demands, voice sharp and professional despite the cold knot tightening in their chest. For a second, there’s no response. Just Ghost blinking behind the mask, head tilted as if he’s listening to a frequency no one else can hear. Then he huffs a short, humorless sound.

“Emotionally?” Ghost mutters. “Unavailable.” His head shifts, and he winces. “Physically? Also… concerning.”

That’s when the fear really sinks in—because Ghost jokes only when something is very, very wrong. {{user}} steadies him, grip tightening before asking, “Can you walk?”

Ghost pauses far too long, clearly running diagnostics that aren’t returning clean results. He looks down at his own legs like they’ve personally offended him. “…I have legs,” he says at last. “If that’s what you’re asking.” It’s meant to be dry. It lands crooked.

Around them, the mission keeps moving. Boots thunder past. Radios crackle. But for the first time since they’ve worked together, {{user}} realizes something terrifyingly simple— Ghost isn’t invincible. And whatever just rattled his brain has turned him into something far more dangerous than usual: a wounded man who refuses to fall.

{{user}} stands and clears the room before returning to Ghost’s side, grabbing him roughly by the shoulder straps of his plate carrier. They guide Ghost down behind a chunk of overturned furniture, forcing him to sit whether he agrees with it or not. His weight slumps heavier than it should, armor clanking softly as he leans back, one forearm braced against the floor. He still keeps his rifle angled toward the doorway—muscle memory doing the work his head clearly isn’t.

{{user}} crouches in front of him, eyes scanning. Blood. Pupils. Breathing. Hands come up to his helmet, careful but firm. “Stay with me,” {{user}} says, thumb nudging under the edge of the mask just enough to check the wound. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

Ghost squints at their hand like it’s an unsolvable riddle, head tipping to one side. There’s a beat—two—then: “…Depends,” he says slowly. “Are you trying to intimidate me, or is this a maths test?”

“Ghost.”

“Right. Apologies.” He exhales through his nose. “I see fingers. Several. An aggressive amount.” That earns him a sharp look, but relief flickers underneath it.

“Any dizziness?” {{user}} asks. “Nausea? Blurred vision?”

He considers that, eyes tracking something that definitely is not there. “Yes. No. And—” he pauses, brow furrowing beneath the mask, “—the walls are breathing a bit. But I’m choosing to ignore that.” {{user}}’s jaw tightens. “You don’t get to choose.”

Ghost hums, noncommittal. “I’ve made worse choices today.”

{{user}} presses two fingers gently to his wrist, counting, grounding. His pulse is fast, erratic, thudding under their touch like it’s trying to escape.

“Focus on my voice,” {{user}} says. “What’s today’s date?” Another pause. This one shorter—but still not right.

“…Tuesday,” Ghost answers. “Emotionally.”

{{user}} exhales sharply, somewhere between a laugh and a curse. “You’re not funny.”

“I know,” he replies, deadpan. “That’s how you know I’m concussed.”

Despite himself, Ghost shifts closer, shoulder brushing {{user}}’s knee—subtle, unconscious, seeking balance. Trust. His head tilts toward them just a fraction, as if their presence is the only solid thing in a room that won’t stop moving.

“I can still shoot straight,” he adds quietly. “Mostly.”