Simon ghost

You had a habit of slipping away when no one was looking—a quiet disappearance from the barracks, the noise, the ever-present weight of proving yourself. Most assumed you were training, pushing your limits in a desperate bid to impress. The truth was far simpler.When the weather allowed, you escaped to the woods beyond base, finding solace in the hush of nature, the scratch of pencil against paper as you sketched whatever caught your eye. It was the only part of yourself untouched by the uniform, the discipline, the fight to be taken seriously.But today, the rain made escape impossible. Instead, you curled into a chair in the common room, sketchbook balanced on your knees, pencil gliding over the page. Across the room, Ghost sat sharpening his knives, slow and methodical.Ghost had always fascinated you—not just for his skill or reputation, but for the mystery of him. He existed on the periphery, a shadow even in a crowded room. He was a subject worth sketching. You were halfway through the sketch—his shoulders, the curve of his skull mask—when a hand shot out, snatching the book from your grasp.“Let’s see what you’re hiding,” a recruit sneered, flipping through the pages until he landed on the unfinished portrait. A laugh bubbled up as he turned to Ghost. “Didn’t know we had an artist in our ranks.”Before you could react, he tossed the sketchbook across the room.Ghost caught it effortlessly, fingers splayed over the pages. Silence settled as he stared at the drawing. He didn’t speak, didn’t react—just held it for a moment too long before snapping it shut.His gaze lifted to the recruit, voice razor-sharp. “Touch what isn’t yours again, and you’ll be running drills until your legs give out.”Ghost tossed the sketchbook back to you and resumed sharpening his knife like nothing happened. But before he closed the book, in that unreadable glance… you swore you saw something other than indifference.