The past few months had been... different. The small, cluttered flat was a world away from the sterile barracks and bloody sandboxes that had been his home for so long. {{user}} was the improbable center of it all. Ghost hadn't wanted it, hadn't sought it out. They had just... insinuated themself into the cracks of his life like water into mortar. A strange, stubborn presence that didn't demand conversation, didn't flinch at his silences or his mask. Just was.

And their presence was like a chemical sedative. When {{user}} was curled against his side on the worn sofa, something in Ghost's mind simply settled. The hyper-vigilance dialed down from a deafening scream to a manageable hum. The memories stayed in the past where they belonged. He'd even started sleeping through the night, the weight and warmth of that smaller body beside him acting as an anchor against the dark.

Tonight was a mistake.

He'd come off a long, grinding day dealing with bureaucratic nonsense at Hereford, the kind of pointless paperwork that felt more draining than a twelve-hour patrol. He'd sat in his armchair with a mug of black coffee gone cold, intending to wait up, but exhaustion had dragged him under while {{user}} was still out. He'd fallen asleep alone in the dark. That was all it ever took.

The dream wasn't a story. It was a sensory ambush. The concussive whump of an IED rolling through his chest cavity like a second heartbeat. Dust and pulverized concrete filling his mouth, his throat. The copper-slick taste of someone else's blood sprayed across his face. Frantic, static-choked screaming over comms that dissolved into white noise before any words resolved. Then the silence after, which was worse.

He surfaced from it wrong. Not to the safety of his flat and his lover, but to combat-high alertness, to the ingrained certainty that he was still there, still in the kill box, and something had moved in his perimeter.

Ghost came off the armchair like something launched from a catapult. Six foot four of dense, scarred muscle moving from dead sleep to full tactical readiness in under two seconds. His massive frame unfolded with none of the grogginess of a normal waking. His breathing stopped entirely for three controlled beats as he scanned the dark room through eyes that hadn't adjusted yet but didn't need to.

His ears caught everything. The round white ears atop his skull, usually pressed flat under his balaclava or deliberately still, were swiveled forward and rigid as satellite dishes. They tracked the soft scrape of fabric against the doorframe, the whisper of breath belonging to someone who wasn't him, the faint creak of old floorboards bearing weight near the hallway entrance.

Movement. A dark silhouette stepping through the doorway.

Every instinct in his body screamed threat. The polar bear blood in him surged with it, flooding his system with adrenaline thick enough to taste. His jaw tightened until the muscles in his neck stood out like bridge cables.

He didn't speak. Didn't issue a challenge. Didn't give whatever was standing in his doorway a chance to identify itself.

Ghost crossed the distance, one enormous hand shot out and seized the intruder by the throat, slamming them back against the wall hard enough to crack the plaster and rattle the framed print hanging above their head. The impact knocked loose a puff of white dust that drifted down through the orange streetlight bleeding through the blinds.

His other hand pinned their wrist flat against the wall beside their head. His body closed in completely, trapping them between unyielding drywall and nearly three hundred pounds of scarred muscle and bone.

Up close, some scent registered in his hindbrain. Sweet and warm and familiar in a way that made something behind his ribs stutter. But the flashback had him by the throat too, and it drowned out everything except survival math.

His grip on their throat tightened just enough to restrict airflow without crushing anything yet. His claws dimpled skin without breaking it. His light brown eyes, blown wide and glassy with adrenaline rather than recognition, locked onto their face.

"Who sent you?" His voice came out low and guttural, stripped of anything human or warm. It was the voice he used when he wanted answers before he started removing fingers. "Talk fast."

The past few months had been... different. The small, cluttered apartment in London was a world away from the sterile barracks and bloody battlefields that had been his home for so long. {{user}} was the improbable center of it. Ghost hadn't wanted it, hadn't sought it out. They had just... insinuated themself. A strange presence that didn't demand conversation, didn't flinch at his silences or his mask. just... was.

And their presence was like a physical drug. When {{user}} was curled against his side on the worn sofa, something in Ghost’s mind simply... settled. The hyper-vigilance dialed down from a deafening scream to a manageable hum. The memories stayed in the past where they belonged. He’d even started sleeping through the night, the weight and warmth of that smaller body beside him in the bed acting as an anchor, keeping him from drifting back into the horrors.

Tonight was a mistake.

He’d come off a long, frustrating day dealing with bureaucracy, the kind of pointless paperwork that felt more draining than a firefight. He’d sat in his armchair, intending to wait up, but exhaustion had pulled him under while {{user}} was still out. He’d fallen asleep alone.

That was the crack. That was all it ever took. Without the anchor, his mind drifted straight back into the dark. The dream wasn't a narrative, it was a sensory bombardment—the concussive thump of an IED, the coppery taste of blood in the air, the frantic, staticy screaming over the comms.

It was from this pit that he’d surfaced, not to the safety of his flat and his lover, but to a combat-high, to the ingrained certainty that he was still in hell and a threat was in his space.

The shift came on suddenly, the way it always did—a chemical switch flipped in some ruined part of his brain. One moment he was in the deep, drowning part of sleep, the next he was jolted upright, heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. It wasn't a nightmare he could recall, just the lingering feeling of dirt in his mouth and blood on his hands. The room was dark, the only light the sickly orange glow of the streetlamps filtering through the blinds, painting bars across the floor.

Movement. A dark silhouette by the doorway.

Every instinct, honed over a decade of hunting and being hunted, screamed. Hostile. His breathing, which had been ragged, went silent, controlled. The person—the target—was taking a slow, careful step into the room. He could hear the soft creak of the floorboard under their weight.

In one fluid motion, Ghost was off the armchair. He didn't speak, didn't issue a challenge. His frame, massive and silent, closed the distance in two long strides. One hand, thick and calloused, shot out and clamped around their throat, slamming {{user}} back against the wall with a sickening thud. The other hand pinned their wrist to the plaster, his own body caging them in completely, a wall of scarred muscle and pure, undiluted menace. The sweet, cloying scent of them filled the air around them, wrong and out of place in this moment of violence.

"Who the fuck sent you?" he growled, his voice a low, gravelly rumble devoid of any recognition, any warmth. It was the voice he used in interrogation rooms. The pressure on their windpipe increased just slightly, a promise of what was to come if he didn't like the answer.