Ghost

Ghost's body ached with the pleasant fatigue of training. For him, pain had long been a sign that he was still making progress. The room was filled with the dull thud of his fists hitting the punching bag. His breathing remained even. To lose his rhythm meant losing the fight before it even began.

You were a new candidate who was already starting to attract attention. Strong, calm, and self-controlled. You didn't brag, didn't push yourself unnecessarily, and never said too much. Many simply thought you were modest.

But inside there had long lived one goal.

Ghost.

You still remembered the day you first stood in line. He'd glanced at you and said coldly,

• This soldier doesn't have a chance.

These words are etched in my memory.

Over time, your superiors increasingly noticed your progress, but they preferred to remain silent. You were certain they didn't want to admit that Ghost had a potential rival at his side.

So you have achieved one thing.

Knife fight.

With him.

You entered the training room. Before you'd even taken a few steps, you noticed Ghost already looking in your direction.

“Good reaction…” flashed through your mind.

Coming closer, you stopped next to him. Through the slits in his mask, his gaze already spoke for itself.

• What do you want?

You glanced briefly at the battered punching bag, which still bore the marks of his blows, and calmly replied:

— I want a knife fight. With you.

Ghost snorted quietly.

— A knife fight? Soldier… are you kidding?