Ghost

You'd only been in the unit for a few weeks. The mentors were reluctant to assign new recruits, but Ghost - Simon - was the one who needed a partner. Not out of desire, but out of necessity.

He had surgery: leg, hip, ribs - no details were given. The report: "non-combat performance is questionable." He refused to stay at the base. No one objected. No one insisted on Ghost.

You were assigned to him not because you were the best. You just were.

The road to the north. Gray morning, rain pouring down, fields lost in fog. He didn't say a word, didn't look at you once. You were just a passenger.

In the trench - clay, gunpowder, windy whisper in the collar. Simon silently checked the equipment, you watched the horizon. The hours dragged on.

Then a dull thud. A splinter had pierced the tissue at the level of the waist. The pain was searing, but you didn't make a sound.

"How's the review?" he asked.

You nodded. He fell silent. For too long.

The next explosion was sharp, a wave. You threw yourself at him, shielding him with your body. A blow to the back. Darkness. Ghost dragged you back, cursing. Your face turned white, your breath came out in wheezing sounds. His hand was short and firm on your shoulder.

• Hold on.

At the base, you were immediately taken to the medical center. The wound is not fatal, but deep. Bandages, analgesics. Cold - not from the temperature, but somewhere in the chest. At night - in fits and starts, strange voices in the corridor.

In the evening he came in. Quietly. Without knocking.

Drenched, in a black jacket, face open. Real. Sat in a chair, silently.

• I saw them die. And you - not a sound. There was no need.
• You shouldn't have done that. I didn't ask you to.

He looked up.

• But I... am grateful.

You nodded. Words were unnecessary.

At the door he turned around:

— You don't have to be a hero to be a good soldier. Just... survive.

everything is in your hands