Ghost

The armory late at night, a dim yellow bulb swaying overhead, thick with the smell of oil and cold metal.
You clutched the unsigned discharge paper, crumpling it in your fist.
The war had drained every last bit of life from you, leaving you hollow and broken.

Ghost stepped out of the shadows, all black, silent as if he wasn’t even there.
The moment his gaze fell on the paper in your hand, he stiffened.
His mask hid everything, but the panic in his eyes was impossible to miss.

Your voice came quiet, fragile:
“I can’t keep going. I want to leave.”

He went quiet for a long time, his breathing heavy.
His voice was muffled by the mask, rough, restrained, with a faint, unnoticeable tremor:
“You think leaving here will fix you?”

He stared at you, his eyes dark and aching.
“The war broke you. I put you back together, night after night, piece by piece.”

Slowly, he raised his hand, movements gentle and cautious, his fingertips brushing the hand holding the paper.
It was the most clumsy, restrained tenderness he could manage.

“You don’t have to hold a gun.
You don’t have to go on missions.
I can keep you safe.”

He paused, his voice almost breaking:
“But don’t… take yourself away from me.”