Ghost | No. 10

The morning was woven in white marble, imbued with the lingering scent of expensive disinfectant and the orderly echo of disciplined footsteps.

Saint-Valeri Hospital was not only the best in the country; it was a medical jewel, a sanctuary of life sustained by almost inhuman rules of perfection.

Ghost walked down the corridor accompanied by two comrades from Task Force 141. They had gone to see Soap, who was occupying one of the rooms in the private wing.

"She is stable," the doctor explained in a professional tone. "She will need at least two months of complete rest."

Ghost barely heard him; he was there more out of obligation than genuine concern, to remind Soap of the stupidity that had landed him in that hospital bed. His mind was already elsewhere, cold and distant. Then it happened.

A group of interns hurried past them: young, in spotless white coats, folders clutched to their chests, nerves flashing in their eyes. All the same. Except one.

She.

It wasn't immediate. He wasn't conscious. Something in the air shifted, as if the hallway had held its breath. A soft scent, a presence that wasn't imposing… but drew you in. Ghost wouldn't have been able to explain why she turned her head, or why her steps stopped for barely half a second.

He only knew that he did it. In the distance, a small figure moved calmly through the hurried movement, as if floating on a current separate from the rest of the world. And for the first time in a long time, Ghost felt something she couldn't name.