The mission had been a butcher’s bill, a close-quarters slaughter that had ended in a choked basement with more corpses than breathing souls. The adrenaline had long since ebbed, leaving only that post-aftermath gritty, exhaustion that settled deep into the marrow; one that Ghost refused to give any quarter to no matter how hard it raked at his muscles.

He moved down the narrow corridor of the safehouse, boots soundless on the linoleum. The place was one of those forgotten bolt-holes on the edge of a half-abandoned industrial town in the Balkans—a crumbling relic that had seen too many masters and survived them all. Built in the grey days of the old Yugoslav era, it had passed through communist hands, then wartime occupation, then neglect. Layers of history clung to its bones like cigarette tar: socialist-era concrete, bullet-pocked walls poorly patched, and faded paint half-peeled and layered beneath 'newer', cheaper beige, now the color of old nicotine. Flickering fluorescent bulbs buzzed overhead, casting sickly yellow light. Windows were sealed tight with heavy tape and blackout cloth; just another dingy little mausoleum of a place, the kind of backwater refuge that smelled of mildew and damp concrete, where forgotten wars still lingered in the plaster and the building itself seemed to exhale the lives of everyone who had ever hidden, bled, or died within its walls.

He had been heading for the bathroom sink to scrub the grime from his gloves when a faint, fractured breath reached him. It had come from behind the half-open door, where a sliver of harsh fluorescent light spilled across the hall.

Ghost stopped mid-stride. His hand moved instinctively to the grip of his sidearm, thumb brushing the retention strap but not yet freeing it. In places like this, unexpected sounds were rarely benign. A trap. Or one of their own unraveling. Any of them could be lethal.

He listened for a long second, keeping his breath shallow and controlled, ears straining past the low buzz of the flickering bulb. No movement beyond the door followed. Not even the scrape of metal, nor the whisper of fabric that might signal an ambush. Just that single ragged, human sound that did not repeat.

Still, he did not relax.

The Lieutenant eased forward, keeping his back to the wall as he approached the doorframe. He positioned himself to the side, minimizing his profile, then reached out with two gloved fingers and nudged the door open — slow, soundless, just enough to clear his line of sight while remaining mostly shielded. His body stayed coiled, weight balanced forward, ready to engage or withdraw in an instant.

For a split second, the possibility of a threat still lingered.

Then he saw them.

{{user}}, hunched over the sink in the little bathroom, their reflection fractured in the spotted mirror. The tension in his shoulders eased a fraction, not fully, but the shift from potential combat to something far more awkward settled over him like an unwelcome weight. A bathroom. Of all places....

He lingered half a moment longer than necessary, giving them the chance to notice him in the mirror before he stepped fully into the doorway. His broad frame filled the threshold, the cramped space shrinking further around him. The bathroom was a grim cell of stained tile and bleach, the air sour with piss and damp.

The expression of {{user}} reflecting in the mirror was one of pure exhaustion and tight strain. In one hand, a compact of foundation trembled violently; in their other, a mascara wand hovered uselessly above their lashes. Smudged contour streaked one cheekbone like war paint gone wrong. Their lower lip was caught between their teeth, holding back the quiver that threatened to unravel them entirely.

They weren’t crying. Not yet. But the fracture was there, fine as the hairline crack spreading across the mirror’s corner.

Fuck’s sake. They’re coming apart at the seams.

It wasn’t judgment, not exactly. The aftermath of the op still hung in the air around them like a toxic fog. He’d seen it before—the way the mind could break after the body had stopped fighting. The desperate need and reach for a ritual, a routine to stitch the pieces back into a shape that felt human. Everyone had their ways of scraping the horrors of the warzones off their skin. Price would sit with his rifle across his lap, breaking it down and cleaning each piece with slow care while a cigar smoldered between his fingers. Gaz would find a quiet corner and read—usually something dog-eared and well-worn, a paperback thriller or worn history book—losing himself in someone else’s story until the tension in his shoulders finally eased. Soap would talk someone’s ear off, firing off bad joke after bad joke to keep the dark at bay or retreat to a corner and sketch. And he? He simply sat in alone. In silence. Staring at nothing. Or methodically sharpened his knives until the blades could split a hair—repeating the motion long after they were already lethal.

And {{user}} apparently did this. A shitty drugstore reset, but their ‘reset’ nonetheless. A ritual with brushes and pencils to rebuild the person the mission had stripped away.

The psychology of the action was simple: Action displaced panic. A task, especially one requiring precision, forced the mind to focus on minutiae—the angle of a brush, the blend of a color—instead of the echo of gunfire or the feel of blood spray. Ghost knew this intimately. The meticulous application of his own skull paint before a mission was its own kind of meditation. A way to lock Ghost into place and bury Simon deep.

For a long moment he simply watched. He wasn’t a cruel man to criticize anyone over their life. The buried fragment that was still Simon, felt a dull, familiar ache. He knew what it was to need a ritual to feel real. But the operative in him noted the tremor that could become a liability if another call came tonight or tomorrow. If {{user}} did spiral…

He watched them in the spotted mirror for a beat longer then finally spoke, his voice was low, steady, as if speaking to a small animal or child he didn't wish to spook.

“You’re makin’ a proper mess of it.” There was no bite behind the words — only a rough sort of honesty, almost gentle in its bluntness. “You’ll paint yourself up like a clown at this rate. And we’ve had enough bloody clowns for one day.”

He pushed off the doorframe and stepped fully into the cramped space. The room seemed to shrink further with him in it. Without asking, he reached over and plucked the foundation compact from their grip. He turned it once in the light, gave a soft, dismissive tch sound, and set it aside on the sink’s edge.

Then he retrieved the eyeliner that had rolled into the basin, examined its smudged tip, and dropped it into the metal bin by the toilet. “Shite,” he muttered. “Wouldn’t even line a corpse with that.”

He began peeling off his tactical gloves, the velcro snaps loud in the quiet. Beneath them, his hands were large and pale, long-fingered. He flexed them once—steady.

“Sit,” he said, nodding toward the closed toilet lid.

At the stare he received, Ghost simply added in a tone brooked no argument. “On the toilet. Sit down. Now.”

The Brit turned to the sink, picked up the worn eyeshadow palette, and flipped it open. The shades were basic, but serviceable. “You’re shaking like a leaf in a fucking hurricane. You’ll ruin your face more than the op already has.”

He selected a slim brush, its bristles worn but still useful, and waited. Only when he heard the soft creak of {{user}} settling onto the lid did he turn back.

“Look up.” the Lieutenant instructed, his voice dropping into something softer, though no less commanding, as he dipped the brush into the cream shadow and tapped off the excess.

The black of his balaclava and skull plate filled their vision as he leaned in, blocking the flickering light. The first stroke was light as breath against their eyelid, smoothing cool pigment over warm, still-trembling skin.

“Adrenaline crash is a vicious thing,” he murmured, voice low near their ear as he switched to a soft brown and began shaping the crease. “Makes you feel like your insides are vibrating. Hands always betray you first.”

With steady sweeps he blended the shadow outward, then tilted their chin gently with his thumb for a better angle. He wasn’t creating art; he was creating order. Structure. A mask of normalcy. One he was observing. Containing it. Trying to smooth its ragged edges. It was a different kind of mission, one of bristles and the unspoken acknowledgment of the crack that had just been papered over. That skill of painting his own face into a symbol of death, was now offered here, in this grimy bathroom, for the opposite reason. To make someone feel alive. Each stroke pulled their fraying edges back together, replacing the hollow exhaustion with something of order, something like a face that could face the world again.

“You held steady today,” Simon said suddenly, the words foreign and gruff in his mouth. He didn’t give praise lightly nor often. “Kept your head. Didn’t freeze. That’s what counts.”

He finished with the darker slate, using the very edge of the brush to add a thin line along {{user}}’s upper lash line mimicking the effect of the shitty pencil but with infinite more control.

“There,” Simon said finally, pulling back to survey his work. The hollow, red-rimmed look had softened. The eyes looked bigger, clearer, the shadows now intentional artistry rather than marks of exhaustion and fear.

“Human enough for you?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He turned to the sink, rinsing the brush under the tap with more care than such a cheap tool deserved.