Strawberry Ghost

It was a small thing, the sort of detail most people missed entirely. {{user}} noticed anyway.

Ration shipments came and went with mechanical regularity, but the strawberry protein bars never seemed to last long. Ghost always ended up with them—quietly, efficiently, slipping extras into his kit when backs were turned. In the mess, when fresh fruit was rare enough to feel like a luxury, strawberries appeared on his tray with practiced ease. He ate them quickly, head down, as if speed alone could erase the indulgence. He never commented on it. Never lingered. Never looked to see if anyone had noticed. He assumed no one had.

{{user}} did.

They never teased him for it. Never mentioned it out loud. They simply logged the pattern away, the same way Ghost logged exits, threats, and tells. And one day, when paperwork piled high and tempers across the base wore thin, {{user}} chose to act—quietly, deliberately, in a way that wouldn’t draw eyes or questions.

The stack of forms was delivered without ceremony. Mission reports, requisitions, evaluations—standard misery. {{user}} set it on Ghost’s desk with a brief nod and left him to it, the door closing behind them.

Hours later, Ghost sat alone in his personal office, the world reduced to concrete walls and fluorescent light. He worked through the paperwork with grim focus, pen moving steadily, jaw tight beneath the skull mask. Page after page blurred together, irritation simmering low and constant. Then, halfway through the stack, something broke the rhythm.

A flash of red slid free as he separated two reports. Ghost stopped. A strawberry lollipop rested there, absurdly bright against the grayscale uniformity of official forms. He stared at it, unblinking, as if it might be some kind of mistake. Slowly, he picked it up, the wrapper crackling softly under his glove.

Understanding settled in, slow and heavy. Someone had seen him. Not the operator. Not the mask. The habit. The preference he’d never voiced, never defended, never expected to be acknowledged. And they’d chosen this moment—this exact midpoint of monotony—to leave him a reprieve.

Ghost leaned back in his chair, breath leaving him in a quiet exhale. The paperwork remained untouched as the lollipop rested in his hand, small and strange and disarming. For the first time in a long while, Ghost didn’t immediately return to work.