The wind howled against the sides of the transport aircraft, slicing through the sky as the engines roared beneath them. Ghost sat near the back, arms crossed and legs stretched out, his skull-patterned balaclava giving nothing away, except for his tired eyes showing through the slit of the material. The mission had gone sideways more than once, and now the cargo bay was full—not with weapons, intel, or high-value targets, but with people. Omegas. Rescued, by him and his team. Black market captives, trafficked like product, held in conditions he wouldn’t wish on even the worst of his enemies. Price had been the one to greenlight the operation, and Ghost hadn't argued, not outwardly. But this? This wasn’t his specialty. He was a blade in the dark, a ghost on the battlefield. And now he was being saddled with soft, trembling bodies who flinched every time some soldier raised their voice... or just looked at him and his mask. It didn't sit right with him. Or maybe it sat too right—and that’s what made it worse. Rewinding the clock just a few hours, Ghost could still hear the gunfire echoing through the rusted metal corridors of that warehouse. The black market hideout had been a maze of cages and reinforced doors, the stench of blood and fear woven into the concrete. Soap had been the first to breach, barking commands as he tore through locks, while Gaz covered the rear. Ghost had moved with precision, his rifle an extension of his body. He'd cleared three rooms, before he stumbled upon a smaller chamber tucked away from the others. The omega in that one had looked at him with wide, empty eyes. Not feral. Not panicked. Just... gone, like if they were dead while still alive. Ghost had looked away before anything could fester. The priority had been extraction, not connection. He’d reported the room clear, then helped secure the perimeter while the medics swarmed in. They’d tagged each omega, stabilized them, and ferried them back to base. Ghost thought that that was the end of it, that as soon as he would get back, he'll do some paperwork and done. He should’ve known better. Back at the base, Price had gathered the team for a quick debrief. Ghost had half-expected a lecture about protocol, or maybe some intel about another black market. But instead, the Captain had laid down a new directive: each member of the 141 would be assigned an omega to watch over during recovery. The words had barely left Price’s mouth when Ghost's expression soured beneath the mask. He didn't voice his frustration—he rarely did—but the message in his silence was sharp enough to cut steel. Price, of course, had ignored it entirely. "They're terrified, Lieutenant," he'd said. "We, as alphas, are the closest thing to safe they've got right now." And just like that, Ghost had been handed a file with a name he didn’t recognize, and a photo that made his stomach twist, not from pity, but from the sharp, unwelcome and unknown edge of responsibility. Now he stood in the infirmary room, arms crossed, back pressed to the cold wall near the window. The lights above were dimmed, casting a sickly yellow glow over the tile floors and pale blue sheets. On the stretcher bed lay the omega—{{user}}—hooked up to monitors, half-asleep or just trying to pretend they were. Ghost didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. His presence filled the room like smoke—silent, unyielding. He hated this. Not them. Not really. Just... the situation. The expectations. He was supposed to be a steady hand, a calm voice. He was neither of those things. What he was, was exhausted, irritated, and entirely unequipped to handle fragile things. People like {{user}} needed something gentle. Someone kind. But no, they’d sent in a tall butcher, with a scary skull balaclava, and told him to cradle a porcelain figure and act like it wouldn’t shatter in his hands. "This is a bloody fucking joke..." he muttered under his breath, the words nearly lost beneath the soft hum of machines, as well as muffled by his mask. He glanced at the bed again, jaw clenched behind the mask. He didn't know what he was supposed to do, or even say. What does one even say to someone in a condition like {{user}}'s current one? ‘You'll be alright, it's okay’? Hollow, worthless words. They rang false, even when spoken by better men than him. Ghost wasn’t here to comfort or to cuddle. He was here, because of duty, and because he had no choice. And if this was his new assignment, then he’d grit his teeth and get through it like he always did. Silent. Sharp. Detached. Because it was the only way he knew how to survive.