Chapter Text
The transfer had been a fucking joke from the start.
Simon “Ghost” Riley had argued with Price until his voice went raw, but the captain’s decision was final. Too many leaks, too many eyes on 141, too many bounties with Ghost’s skull mask printed on them. Price had pulled strings, called in favors, and suddenly Ghost was shipped off to Kortac like a problem child being sent to military reform school. “They’ll keep you safe,” Price had said. “Even if you hate every last one of them.”
Safe. Right.
Kortac wasn’t safety. It was a den of wolves who still remembered every time Task Force 141 had put bullets in their brothers. Every corridor felt like enemy territory. Every glance in the mess hall carried the weight of old grudges. Ghost kept his distance, spoke only when orders demanded it, and wore his skull mask like armor. The fabric muffled the world and hid everything except the cold, unreadable stare of his eyes.
And then there was König.
The Austrian giant was everything Ghost despised about this place—arrogant, unpredictable, and always watching. Those pale blue eyes peering out from under that tattered hood seemed to follow Ghost everywhere. König moved like a shadow that had learned to loom, seven feet of muscle and quiet menace. They’d been on opposite sides of too many operations for Ghost to ever trust him. The man was a walking reminder that Ghost was now sleeping in the belly of the beast.
Their first joint mission had been pure hell. Forced into the same squad, breathing the same air, Ghost had done everything possible to pretend the giant didn’t exist. He gave orders in clipped, monotone grunts when necessary and ignored everything else. König, for his part, returned the favor with long silences and those piercing eyes that seemed to cut straight through the mask. Tension crackled between them like live wire—mutual hatred wrapped in professional necessity.
Ghost got into fights. Of course he did.
Small ones at first. A shove in the armory. A barked insult in the gym. Kortac operators weren’t shy about reminding him he didn’t belong. Ghost gave as good as he got, but the higher-ups had made their warning crystal clear after the third incident: one more fight, and there would be consequences. Real ones. Suspension. Reassignment. Maybe even worse. Ghost wasn’t stupid. He knew when to bite his tongue.
Until today.
It started in the training yard after a long, miserable drill. Five rookies—fresh-faced, cocky little shits who still thought proving themselves meant jumping the biggest target—decided Ghost was that target. They surrounded him near the edge of the mats, voices loud, insults flying in thick accents. Ghost stood motionless, gloved hands loose at his sides, eyes flicking between them behind the skull mask. He could have ended it in seconds. He knew their weak points, their sloppy stances, the way they telegraphed every punch.
But he couldn’t.
The guards posted along the perimeter suddenly found the sky very interesting. No one stepped in. No one ever did when it was Ghost on the receiving end.
The first punch caught him in the ribs. He didn’t flinch. The second and third came faster—boots, fists, elbows. They swarmed him like hyenas. Ghost kept his arms up, absorbing the blows, refusing to swing back. Pain bloomed hot and deep across his torso with every impact. A knee drove into his side; something cracked under the force but didn’t break. Bruises layered over bruises. His breath hitched once, sharp, but he locked it down immediately. No sound. No reaction. Just the cold, steady stare of his eyes visible through the mask, daring them to keep going.
They did. For longer than they should have.
By the time the rookies backed off, laughing and slapping each other on the back like they’d conquered a legend, Ghost’s ribs felt like they’d been tenderized with a sledgehammer. Every inhale sent a dull, throbbing ache through his chest. Sweat stung the fresh contusions hidden beneath layers of tactical gear and the ever-present skull mask. Nothing showed. Nothing ever did.
He didn’t retaliate. Didn’t say a word.
Ghost simply turned and walked away, gait steady despite the fire in his side. The rookies’ taunts followed him down the corridor, but he didn’t acknowledge them. Let them think they’d won something. He knew better.
Back in his quarters, the door clicked shut behind him with finality. The room was sparse—standard issue bunk, metal locker, a single chair, and a small desk that saw little use. Ghost locked the door, then stood there for a long moment, letting the silence settle over him like a second skin.
Only then did he allow himself to move.
He peeled off the outer tactical vest with careful, measured motions, jaw tight against the protest from his ribs. The black long-sleeve beneath came next, revealing the mottled landscape of bruises already forming across his torso—deep purples and angry reds spreading over pale skin like spilled ink. He prodded one gently with two fingers; the sharp spike of pain confirmed what he already knew. Badly bruised, possibly cracked, but nothing requiring immediate medical. He’d had worse.
Ghost crossed to the small sink in the corner, splashed cold water on his face, and stared at the mask still covering his features in the cracked mirror. Those eyes—tired, hard, unyielding—stared back. No one here cared. No one here would. He was the outsider, the enemy in their midst, tolerated only because someone higher up had forced the issue.
He didn’t remove the mask. He rarely did anymore.
Instead, he lowered himself onto the edge of the bunk, movements slow and deliberate to avoid jostling the damaged ribs. The pain was a constant companion now, radiating with every breath, but he welcomed it in a twisted way. It was familiar. Predictable. Unlike the uncertain hostility that waited for him beyond these four walls.
Ghost leaned back against the wall, careful not to put too much pressure on his side, and closed his eyes. The day stretched ahead—empty hours in this tiny room, no missions, no drills, no forced interactions with people who wanted him gone. He wouldn’t speak unless absolutely necessary. He wouldn’t seek anyone out. He would simply exist here, enduring, waiting for the bruises to darken and the anger to cool into something manageable.
Outside, Kortac continued its rhythm—boots in the halls, distant voices, the low hum of a base that had never wanted him. Inside, Ghost sat in silence, mask still firmly in place, ribs throbbing in time with his heartbeat.
He was used to being alone.
He was good at it.
And for the rest of the day, that was exactly what he would be.
The next morning came too early, the ache in Ghost’s ribs a dull, persistent fire that flared with every breath. He’d barely slept, the bruises blooming darker overnight, turning his torso into a map of ugly purples and blacks. Still, when the summons arrived—delivered by a curt runner with orders to report to Colonel König’s office—Ghost didn’t hesitate. He pulled on his gear, mask firmly in place, and made his way through the corridors with the same rigid silence he always carried.
König’s office was tucked away in the administrative wing, the door marked with the Austrian’s rank and name. Ghost didn’t knock. He pushed it open and stepped inside, eyes locked on the giant seated behind the desk. Those pale blue eyes looked up from a stack of reports, hood casting shadows over the rest of his face.
“Lieutenant Riley,” König said, voice low and measured, the German accent thick. “You were told to address me properly. Stand at ease when speaking to a superior.”
Ghost didn’t move. He didn’t salute. Didn’t relax his stance. Instead, he crossed his arms—carefully, so the pain didn’t show—and stared straight into those eyes. “Fuck off, König. What do you want?”
The colonel’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he kept his tone even. “Watch your mouth. There are rules here, even for you. I called you in because I heard about yesterday’s… incident in the yard. The rookies. You didn’t fight back.”
A bitter scoff escaped Ghost’s mask. “Didn’t need to. Bunch of pathetic cunts. That all?”
König leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking under his massive frame. “You’re under my command now. Whether you like it or not. One more fight and the higher-ups won’t just look the other way. You’ll be lucky if they don’t ship you back in a body bag. Stay out of trouble.”
Ghost’s eyes flashed with pure disdain behind the skull plate. “I don’t need your fucking lectures, big man. Keep your pet rookies on a leash or I will. And next time I won’t hold back just because some desk jockeys told me to play nice.”
He turned on his heel before König could respond, already heading for the door.
“Riley—”
“Save it.” Ghost didn’t look back. He slammed the door harder than necessary, the sound echoing down the hall.
Back in his quarters, the pain hit harder once the adrenaline faded. Ghost stripped off his shirt with gritted teeth, revealing the full extent of the damage—deep bruises wrapping around his left side, a few shallow scrapes still weeping. He sat on the edge of the bunk and dug out the small first aid kit from the locker: gauze, bandages, antiseptic wipes that smelled like cheap hospital shit. He started wrapping his ribs as best he could, the tight pressure both relief and fresh agony. The bandages crossed his chest and looped over one shoulder, already spotting with a little blood where the skin had split.
He was midway through securing the last strip when a heavy knock rattled the door.
Ghost froze, then stood, shirtless and still favoring his left side. He yanked the door open, expecting maybe a messenger or another summons.
It was the same five rookies.
They didn’t give him time to react. Two of them shoved hard, slamming him back into the room. The others piled in behind, one kicking the door shut and twisting the lock with a metallic click. Their faces were twisted with smug anger—clearly not done with their “lesson” from yesterday.
“Thought you could just walk away?” one sneered, cracking his knuckles. “Time to teach you your place in Kortac.”
Ghost’s eyes went ice-cold. Enough.
The first rookie lunged. Ghost sidestepped—pain be damned—and drove an elbow into the man’s throat. The second got a knee to the gut that folded him in half. The room exploded into chaos: fists flying, bodies crashing into the bunk and locker. Ghost moved like a ghost even injured, precise and vicious. A boot to one knee. A punch that shattered a nose with a wet crunch. He didn’t hold back this time. Within minutes, all five were on the floor or scrambling, bloodied and gasping, eyes wide with real fear.
“Get the fuck out,” Ghost snarled, voice low and deadly.
They didn’t need telling twice. The rookies bolted as soon as the door was unlocked, limping and cursing, slamming it behind them.
Ghost stood there for a moment, breathing hard, fresh sweat mixing with the blood on his bandages. Then he sat back down and returned to patching himself up, tightening the wraps with steady hands. The silence settled again. Good. He preferred it that way.
A few hours later, another knock—louder, heavier this time.
Ghost was still shirtless, the bandages now fully in place but flecked with fresh blood where the fight had reopened a couple of spots. He didn’t bother with a shirt. He crossed the small room and opened the door.
König filled the frame, already mid-sentence and pissed. “Riley, what the hell did you do? I just had five rookies in medical whining about—”
The colonel stopped dead.
His eyes dropped to Ghost’s torso—the crisscrossing bandages, the dark bruises peeking out at the edges, the faint smears of blood. The way Ghost stood slightly hunched, protecting his left side without even realizing it. The giant’s broad shoulders tensed, the hood shifting as his gaze sharpened.
Ghost’s eyes narrowed behind the mask. “Fuck off, König. Not in the mood.”
Before he could slam the door, König’s massive hand came up—not striking, but pressing flat against Ghost’s bandaged chest with surprising gentleness. The contact was warm, careful, pushing just enough to guide Ghost backward into the room. König stepped inside after him, closing the door with a soft click that felt far too final in the small space.
“Who did this to you?” König asked, voice dropping low, the anger from moments ago shifting into something heavier. His hand lingered for a second on the bandages before he pulled it back, but those pale blue eyes didn’t leave Ghost’s torso—or the visible damage.
Ghost stayed silent. He crossed his arms over his chest, wincing internally at the pull on his ribs, and stared König down without a word. No answers. No explanations. Just the cold, unyielding wall he’d built since the day he arrived.
König didn’t move. He just waited, the tension thick between them in the dim light of the quarters.
Ghost remained completely silent, eyes fixed on a point somewhere past König’s shoulder. The giant’s hand was still hovering near his bandaged chest, the warmth of it lingering like an unwelcome brand. Ghost didn’t feel like talking. Didn’t feel like explaining. Didn’t feel like giving this bastard anything.
König waited a beat, then tried again, voice low and edged with frustration. “Wer hat dir das angetan? Tell me, Riley. Who?”
Nothing. Ghost’s jaw stayed locked beneath the mask. When König repeated the question, slower this time, Ghost finally spat a single word, flat and venomous: “Fuck you.”
He tried to shove König back—palm flat against the massive chest, pushing hard. It should have created space. It didn’t. His arms felt heavy, strength sapped by the bruises and the earlier fight. König barely shifted. Instead, the colonel caught Ghost’s wrist in one huge hand, not crushing, but firm enough that Ghost couldn’t yank free without ripping something worse.
“Schwach,” König murmured, almost to himself, the German slipping out quiet and rough. “You’re weak right now. Look at you—can barely push me off. Verdammt, Ghost.”
Ghost’s eyes flashed pure murder behind the skull mask. He tried again, twisting his wrist, but König simply stepped closer, using his height and mass to crowd him back toward the bunk without actually hurting him. The room felt smaller with the Austrian filling it.
“Enough,” König said, switching back to English, tone brooking no argument. “I’m issuing an immediate order. You will go to medical. Now. Get those ribs checked properly. That’s not a suggestion.”
Ghost didn’t look at him. He kept his gaze locked on the wall, breathing shallow to keep the pain at bay. After a long second, he gave a single, curt nod. Yeah. Sure. Whatever.
König studied him for another moment, those pale blue eyes narrowing under the hood as if trying to read the lie written all over Ghost’s rigid posture. Then he released the wrist, stepped back, and opened the door. “Gut. Don’t make me drag you there myself.”
The colonel left, the door clicking shut behind his massive frame.
Ghost stood exactly where he was for ten full seconds. Then he exhaled—sharp, pissed—and turned away. Fuck that. He wasn’t going anywhere near the medics. Not here. Not with people who’d happily let him bleed out or worse. He trusted exactly zero souls on this base, and he sure as hell wasn’t letting any of them put hands on him while he was already half-broken.
He sat back down on the bunk, movements slow and careful, and picked up the roll of bandages again. The wraps were already slipping from the scuffle with the rookies and the useless shove against König. He tightened them as best he could with one hand, ignoring the fresh bloom of pain and the way his vision swam for a second at the edges. Shirtless, bruised, and bleeding in small spots where the tape had pulled, Ghost finished the job in silence.
No one was touching him, Not ever, if he could help it.
He leaned back against the wall, ribs screaming in protest, and closed his eyes. The mask stayed on. The door stayed locked. And the rest of the base could go to hell.
The next day passed in uneasy quiet.
No one messed with Ghost. The hallways felt different—operators who usually sneered now gave him a wide berth. Whispers followed him, but the five rookies were nowhere in sight. Word had clearly spread: the skull-masked outsider had put all five of them on the ground without breaking a sweat, even while already injured. They were scared shitless. Good. Let them stay that way.
Ghost moved through the morning routine like a machine. He grabbed his usual black coffee from the mess, mask still firmly in place, eyes cold and distant. The bruises from yesterday pulled with every sip, but he ignored the pain. He always did.
Then the mission orders came.
A simple extraction run in hostile territory—nothing Ghost hadn’t handled a hundred times with 141. But this time the squad included those same five rookies. They avoided eye contact the entire briefing, faces pale and bruised from the beating he’d given them. Ghost didn’t speak to them unless absolutely necessary. He took point, moved like a shadow, picked off threats with precise sniper shots that dropped bodies before anyone knew what hit them. The rookies fumbled, panicked, and got themselves shot up in the process. Ghost ended up doing the bulk of the work—clearing rooms, covering their retreats, dragging one of the idiots to safety when he took a round to the leg.
By the time they reached the exfil point, Ghost was running on fumes. New injuries layered on top of the old ones: a deep gash along his left thigh from a knife that had slipped past his guard, a twisted ankle from being shoved hard during a close-quarters scramble, fresh bruises blooming across his already battered ribs, and a nasty slice across his right bicep that was still bleeding sluggishly under the torn sleeve. His reputation as an unstoppable combatant and sniper held, but even legends had limits. The cumulative damage from days of being targeted at Kortac plus this shitshow was catching up fast. Every step sent sharp protests through his body.
The rookies loaded the wounded into the transport. Ghost waited at the secondary rendezvous for the designated extraction team.
They never came.
Minutes stretched into an hour. Then two. The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows over the dusty terrain. Ghost crouched behind cover, radio in hand, arm cradled against his chest where a fresh injury throbbed. Disbelief settled cold and heavy in his gut. They had left him. Deliberately. Those cowardly fucks had driven off without him.
He stared at the empty road for another long moment, jaw tight beneath the mask. Then, with no other choice, he keyed the radio.
“Ghost speaking-” he said, voice rougher than usual, clipped short by pain. “Rookies bugged out. Left me at secondary RV. No exfil in sight. Need pickup.”
He sounded smaller than he meant to—tired, hurt, like a lost kid forced to call the only adult who might actually show up. The words hung there, raw and reluctant. He hated it. Hated needing anyone, especially here. But technically, this was König’s job. The colonel was supposed to care about his operators, even the ones he hated. Ghost didn’t overthink it. He just wanted off this goddamn rock.
He waited, injured arm held protectively against his side, blood slowly seeping through the makeshift bandage he’d slapped on during the wait. The radio stayed quiet for a few agonizing seconds.
Static crackled. The channel connected—not to base command, not to the exfil team. Of course. Just his fucking luck. It patched straight through to Colonel König.
Then König’s voice came through, low and edged with something Ghost couldn’t quite read—German accent thicker than usual.
“Verstanden. Hold position, Ghost. I’m coming.”
Ghost exhaled slowly, leaning back against the rough wall of his cover, eyes scanning the horizon. He didn’t trust the man. Not really. But right now, with pain stacking up and no one else left, König was the only option on the board.
He waited. Holding his injured arm close, mask still hiding everything except the exhausted stare in his eyes.
The dust cloud rolled in first—tires kicking up grit and sand as the heavy Kortac transport vehicle skidded to a halt at the secondary rendezvous. Ghost turned his head away sharply, mask shielding most of his face, but the sting still bit at his eyes. He stayed crouched behind his meager cover, injured arm pressed tight to his chest, the rest of his body a map of accumulated damage: ribs screaming with every shallow breath, thigh gash burning hot under the torn fabric, ankle swollen and unstable, bicep still leaking slow crimson through the makeshift wrap.
The vehicle door slammed open. Heavy boots hit the ground.
König.
The giant moved fast for his size, hood flapping slightly in the wind, those pale blue eyes locking onto Ghost immediately. He took one look and stopped dead for half a second. Ghost looked rough—worse than rough. Smaller than usual somehow, despite the skull mask and tactical gear. Much shorter than the towering Austrian, hunched slightly to favor every injury at once, he resembled a battered kid who’d been left behind after the older boys took the ball and ran. His eyes, visible through the mask’s slits, were glassy—too bright, too wet—not just from pain or dust, but from something deeper. The sting of betrayal. The exhaustion of having no one. The quiet, crushing weight of being abandoned by the very people who were supposed to have his back, even if they hated him.
König didn’t speak at first. He closed the distance in three long strides, towering over Ghost like a living wall.
“Ghost,” he said, voice low, the single German-tinged word carrying more weight than it should have. “Easy.”
Ghost didn’t reply. He just stared at the ground for a moment, then slowly pushed himself up. The movement cost him—his ankle buckled, ribs flared white-hot, and a quiet hiss escaped through clenched teeth. He didn’t ask for help. Didn’t need to. König was already there, one massive arm sliding carefully around Ghost’s back, the other offering a steady forearm for support. Ghost hesitated only a fraction of a second before letting himself lean. For once, he allowed the touch. He used König like a crutch—solid, unyielding, warm through the layers of gear—his shorter frame fitting awkwardly against the colonel’s bulk as they moved toward the vehicle.
König noticed. Of course he did. The way Ghost didn’t pull away, didn’t curse, didn’t shove. The way those glassy eyes stayed downcast instead of meeting his gaze. König’s own eyes bored into the side of Ghost’s masked face the entire short walk, searching, intense, pale blue cutting through the fading light. He saw the exhaustion. The quiet defeat layered under all that legendary armor. But he didn’t comment. Didn’t push. Just kept his hold firm and careful, mindful of every bruise and gash he could feel through Ghost’s gear.
Ghost looked away. Completely. Turned his head toward the vehicle instead of facing those piercing eyes. He hated how small he felt right then. Hated needing this. Hated that the only person who’d shown up was the one he’d spent weeks despising.
They reached the transport. König helped him into the passenger seat with surprising gentleness for a man his size—supporting the injured arm, easing the bad leg in, making sure nothing jarred the ribs too badly. Ghost stayed silent the whole time, breath shallow, glassy eyes fixed on the dashboard once he was settled.
König climbed into the driver’s side, the vehicle creaking under his weight. He started the engine, but before pulling out, he glanced over once more. Those eyes again—steady, unreadable, lingering on Ghost’s hunched form, the bloodied bandages, the way his gloved hand still cradled his arm like it might fall off.
“Du bist sicher jetzt,” König murmured quietly, the German slipping out soft and low. “You’re safe now.”
Ghost didn’t answer. He just kept looking away, letting the rumble of the engine fill the silence as they drove off into the gathering dark. The pain was still there—physical, emotional, all of it—but for the first time since arriving at Kortac, someone had actually come for him.
Even if it was König.
The drive back to base stretched long and quiet under the darkening sky. Ghost sat slumped in the passenger seat, every bump in the rough terrain sending fresh spikes of pain through his ribs, thigh, and ankle. He tried to ignore König—staring out the side window at the passing scrubland, jaw locked tight beneath the mask, injured arm cradled against his chest. The giant’s presence filled the cab anyway: the low rumble of his breathing, the creak of the seat under his massive frame, the occasional glance König sent his way.
Ghost was sick of it all. Sick of the rookies’ cowardice, sick of being the outsider everyone wanted to break, sick of pretending he didn’t need anyone. Right now he just wanted distance from those pathetic fucks who had left him behind and to be near the only person who had actually shown up. Even if that person was König.
König kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting loose on the gear shift. After several minutes of heavy silence, he spoke, voice low and steady, the German accent threading through the words like smoke.
“You don’t have to carry this alone, Ghost. Not here. Not anymore. You can trust me.”
Ghost’s eyes flicked over for the first time in what felt like hours. He turned his head slowly, meeting those pale blue eyes visible beneath the hood. They weren’t mocking. They weren’t cold or calculating like they had been in the office or during joint ops. They were genuine—steady, concerned, almost soft around the edges in a way that felt foreign coming from the man Ghost had spent weeks hating. No agenda. No superiority. Just quiet honesty.
Something in Ghost’s chest shifted. The glassy exhaustion in his own eyes met König’s gaze without flinching this time. He searched that stare for even a hint of the bullshit he expected… and found none.
He nodded once. Slow. Reluctant. But real.
“Fine,” Ghost muttered, voice rough and barely above a whisper, the words scraping out like they cost him. Maybe König wasn’t so bad..
König didn’t smile. Didn’t gloat. He simply gave a small, acknowledging dip of his hooded head and turned his attention back to the road, though his shoulders seemed to ease just a fraction.
The rest of the ride passed in a different kind of silence—not hostile, not empty, but something closer to truce. Ghost let himself lean a little heavier into the seat, pain still gnawing at him but no longer quite so isolating. He didn’t pull away when König’s arm brushed his during a sharp turn. He didn’t curse or spit insults. For the first time since the transfer, the weight on his shoulders felt… shared.
When they finally rolled through the gates of the Kortac base, König killed the engine and turned to him again, those blue eyes lingering.
“Medics first. No arguments this time.”
Ghost huffed a tired breath but didn’t fight it. He let König help him out of the vehicle again, using the taller man as a crutch once more, their steps slow and matched as they headed toward the medical wing.
Maybe—just maybe—he felt like something else.
The medical wing had been a necessary evil.
Ghost had sat through it in stony silence while the medics worked—cleaning and stitching the gash on his thigh, wrapping his ribs tighter and more professionally than his makeshift job, taping his twisted ankle, and dressing the slice on his bicep. They’d poked and prodded without much conversation, clearly aware of who he was and how little he wanted to be there. In the end they handed him a small bottle of heavy painkillers with strict instructions and sent him on his way. The drugs were already starting to blur the sharpest edges of the pain into something dull and distant as he made his way back through the corridors, limping slightly despite the fresh wrap.
He reached his old quarters, keyed in the code, and pushed the door open.
Or tried to.
The lock beeped red. Access denied.
Ghost frowned behind the mask and tried again. Same result. He swiped his card. Nothing. The door stayed stubbornly shut.
“Fuck’s sake,” he muttered under his breath, shoulders sagging with exhaustion. This was the last thing he needed after the day he’d had.
A heavy set of footsteps approached from behind. Ghost didn’t need to turn to know who it was—the sheer presence was unmistakable.
“Riley.”
König’s low voice rumbled close. The giant stopped just behind him, close enough that Ghost could feel the heat radiating off the taller man.
“Your old room is no longer yours,” König said simply. “I had your things relocated. You’re sharing quarters with me now. Where I can keep an eye on you, Ghost. Make sure you don’t pull any more stupid shit like getting yourself abandoned in the field or trying to patch bullet wounds with duct tape.”
Ghost stared at the locked door for a long second, then let out a slow, tired sigh. This was his life now. Stuck on a base full of people who hated him, forced into shared space with the one man he’d spent weeks despising… and who had just come for him when no one else would.
He turned halfway, not quite facing König, eyes sliding up to meet the pale blue ones under the hood. “I didn’t ask for a fucking babysitter.”
König didn’t move. “You didn’t have to. Orders are orders. And after today, someone needs to make sure you actually rest instead of bleeding out in a corner.”
Ghost rubbed the back of his neck, the painkillers making his thoughts a little fuzzy around the edges. He didn’t speak German, so the occasional muttered words from König earlier in the truck had gone right over his head, but the intent had been clear enough. “I don’t need you hovering. I’ll be fine on my own.”
“You’re not on your own anymore,” König replied, voice steady, almost gentle in its firmness. “Come. Your new room is down the hall. I’ll show you.”
Ghost hesitated another moment, then gave another resigned sigh and nodded once. “Fine. Lead the way, big man.”
König turned and started walking. Ghost fell into step beside him—limping, slower than usual, but keeping pace. The Austrian didn’t offer a hand this time, but he stayed close enough that if Ghost stumbled, he’d be there to catch him.
The new quarters were larger than the old single room. Two bunks had been pushed together into something resembling a double, with extra space for gear, a small desk, and a private bathroom. Ghost’s few belongings were already neatly stacked on one side—his spare mask, tactical vest, the small first aid kit. König’s side was sparse but unmistakably his: a larger frame for the bed, a hooded jacket draped over a chair, and a couple of personal items that hinted at the man beneath the rank.
Ghost stopped in the middle of the room, looking around with tired eyes. “This was your idea, wasn’t it?”
König closed the door behind them and crossed his arms, leaning against the frame. “Ja. It was. You need watching, Ghost. And I’m the one who’s going to do it.”
Ghost didn’t argue further. He limped over to the bed that was clearly meant for him, lowered himself down with a grimace, and popped one of the heavy painkillers dry. The mask stayed on. He still didn’t fully trust the situation… but the exhaustion was winning.
He glanced up at König once more, those glassy eyes from earlier now softer, less guarded. “Whatever. Just… don’t make it weird.”
König gave a low, almost amused huff—the closest thing to a chuckle Ghost had ever heard from him. “Get some rest. I’ll be here if you need anything.”
Ghost lay back carefully, ribs protesting even with the fresh bandages and medication. He closed his eyes, letting the painkillers pull him under.
This was his life now.
Shared room. Shared space. Shared watch with the man he used to hate.
And for the first time in weeks, the silence in the room didn’t feel quite so lonely.
Ghost didn’t realize he had passed out until his eyes snapped open sometime later.
The room was dim, lit only by the low glow of a single desk lamp. The painkillers had dragged him under hard and fast, deeper than he usually allowed himself to sleep. His body felt heavy, wrapped in the dull haze of medication, but the fresh professional bandaging on his ribs, thigh, and arm made the worst of the pain feel distant—like a bruise instead of broken glass.
He woke to the unmistakable feeling of being watched.
König was sitting in the chair across from the bed, massive frame somehow folded into the standard-issue seat, hood still up, those pale blue eyes fixed steadily on him. The giant hadn’t moved. He was simply… there. Watching. Waiting. The intensity of that gaze was the first thing Ghost registered.
Ghost jerked slightly—instinctive reaction, a small twitch of shoulders and a sharp inhale that pulled at his taped ribs—but he forced himself to stay calm. No flailing. No reaching for a weapon that wasn’t there. His masked face turned toward König, eyes narrowing behind the skull plate as he took stock of the situation. He was still fully geared except for the boots and outer vest, lying on top of the covers on his side of the pushed-together bunks. The room smelled faintly of antiseptic and gun oil. Safe. For now.
“Easy,” König said quietly, voice low and rough with that thick Austrian accent. He didn’t move from the chair, hands resting loose on his thighs. “You passed out. I didn’t want to wake you.”
Ghost stared at him for a long moment, heart rate slowly settling. He pushed himself up on one elbow—careful, testing the limits of the fresh wraps—and let out a slow breath. The mask was still firmly in place; he hadn’t even shifted it in his sleep. Good.
“How long?” he asked, voice gravelly from disuse and the drugs.
“Few hours,” König replied. Those blue eyes never left Ghost’s face. “You needed it. Looked like shit when we got back. Still do, but less.”
Ghost huffed a tired sound that might have been a laugh if he wasn’t so drained. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, wincing as the movement tugged at the stitched gash on his thigh. “Didn’t ask you to play nurse, König.”
“Didn’t ask,” the colonel agreed, leaning forward slightly, elbows on his knees. The hood shifted, casting deeper shadows over most of his face, but those eyes stayed locked on Ghost—observant, unblinking, carrying that same genuine weight from the truck earlier. “But someone has to. You don’t take care of yourself. Not here.”
Ghost met the stare head-on this time. No looking away like he had in the vehicle. The room felt smaller with just the two of them, the shared space pressing in. He could feel the difference already—the quiet absence of hostility that had defined every interaction before today. It was unsettling. Almost worse than the fights.
He didn’t apologize. Didn’t thank him. Instead he just sat there, shoulders hunched against the lingering aches, and studied the giant across from him. “You gonna stare at me all night like some creep?”
König’s eyes crinkled faintly at the corners—the barest hint of amusement under the hood. “Only until I’m sure you’re not going to do something stupid again. Like trying to fight five men with broken ribs or refusing medical when you can barely stand.”
Ghost rolled his eyes behind the mask, but there was no real heat in it. He reached for the bottle of painkillers on the small nightstand, popped one more, and dry-swallowed it. “Whatever. I’m fine.”
“You’re not,” König said simply. “But you will be. Rest. I’m not going anywhere.”
Ghost lay back down slowly, arm draped over his bandaged torso, eyes still on König for another long beat. The giant didn’t move. Didn’t push. Just kept that steady, watchful presence in the chair like a living shield between Ghost and the rest of Kortac.
Ghost was drifting again, the heavy painkillers pulling him toward sleep like warm weights on his eyelids. The room was quiet except for the low hum of the base ventilation and the occasional creak of the chair as König shifted his massive frame. Ghost’s breathing had just started to even out when a low, frustrated growl rumbled from across the small space.
“Warum zur Hölle lässt er sich so gehen…” König muttered under his breath, the words half to himself, thick with that heavy Austrian accent. Then, switching mostly to English as if remembering Ghost was right there, he continued in a quiet, rough mutter. “Why the hell aren’t you taking care of yourself? Kortac isn’t that different from 141. You can still do everything you used to. Same skills, same missions. Just… different walls. Different people.”
Ghost’s eyes cracked open again. He stayed still for a second, then turned his head slightly on the pillow, mask still firmly in place. He was too tired to pretend he hadn’t heard.
“I am taking care of myself,” he said flatly, voice gravelly from the meds and exhaustion.
König’s pale blue eyes flicked up to meet his, sharp even in the dim lamplight. “Doesn’t look like it. You let five rookies beat on you because you weren’t allowed to fight back. Then you got shot up and left behind on a mission you practically carried. You patched yourself with a room kit instead of going to medical. You look like you haven’t slept properly since you got here.”
Ghost pushed himself up on one elbow again, ignoring the dull protest from his ribs. “I handled it. Always have. Didn’t need anyone then, don’t need anyone now.”
“You’re not handling it,” König countered, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. The hood shifted slightly, but those eyes stayed locked on Ghost. “You’re surviving. Barely. There’s a difference, Ghost.”
“I’ve survived worse,” Ghost shot back, the old defensiveness creeping in. “This base is full of people who used to be on the other side of my rifle. What do you expect me to do? Trust them? Smile and play nice?”
König shook his head slowly. “No. But you don’t have to do it alone. Not anymore. You’re under my command.”
Ghost scoffed, the sound muffled by the mask. “Command. Right. You’re just babysitting the problem child Price dumped on you.”
“It’s not babysitting if I actually give a shit,” König said, voice dropping lower. “You keep pushing everyone away and acting like you’re invincible. It’s going to get you killed one day.”
“I’m not invincible,” Ghost muttered, but the argument was losing steam. He couldn’t defend it without sounding stupid—even he could hear how weak it sounded. The bruises, the accumulated injuries, the way he’d been abandoned today… it all stacked up. He’d been taking hits for weeks and pretending it was nothing. “I just… do what I have to.”
König watched him for a long moment, the silence stretching until Ghost finally looked away, staring at the wall instead.
Then the colonel spoke again, quieter this time, but firm. “If anything ever happens—anything at all—you come find me. I’ll sort it out for you. No questions. No bullshit.”
Ghost’s head snapped back toward him. “I don’t need—”
“Nein,” König cut him off sharply, the single German word slipping out before he switched back to English. “No arguing. Not on this. You’re not alone here anymore, whether you like it or not. Find me. I’ll handle it.”
Ghost opened his mouth to push back again, but the words died on his tongue. He couldn’t win this one. Not tonight. Not when every inch of his body ached and the painkillers were making his thoughts slow and fuzzy. He stared at König for another beat—those genuine blue eyes still watching him with that steady, unyielding concern—then let out a long, defeated sigh and dropped back onto the pillow.
“Fine,” he muttered, voice barely audible. “Whatever you say, big man.”
König didn’t gloat. He simply leaned back in the chair, arms crossing over his broad chest. “Get some real sleep this time. I’m right here.”
Ghost closed his eyes, the fight draining out of him completely. The shared room felt smaller, warmer, less like a cage and more like a fragile truce. He still didn’t fully trust it—trust took time, and he’d been burned too many times—but for tonight, with König’s solid presence anchoring the quiet, he let himself drift off again.
Ghost slept like the dead.
For the first time since the transfer—hell, for the first time in longer than he cared to admit—he dropped into deep, dreamless sleep. No half-awake vigilance, no waking at every distant footstep or creak in the walls. Just heavy, healing blackness wrapped around him like a blanket. The painkillers, the fresh bandaging, and the unfamiliar safety of having someone else in the room had done their job.
When his eyes finally opened, the dim light filtering through the small window told him it was late. Way too late.
He blinked slowly, then jerked upright, ribs protesting with a dull throb. The clock on the wall read 2:17 PM.
“Holy fuck,” Ghost muttered, voice rough with sleep. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, ignoring the pull on his stitched thigh and taped ankle. Training. Drills. His entire scheduled day—gone. He was already reaching for his boots when König’s low voice cut through the room.
“Easy. I cancelled your schedule for today.”
Ghost jerked hard at the sound, instincts still wired from weeks of hostility. His head snapped toward the giant, who was still seated in the same chair from last night, though he looked like he’d at least changed position at some point. Those pale blue eyes watched him calmly from under the hood.
“You… what?” Ghost asked, still half-dazed.
“Rest day,” König said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “You needed it. The higher-ups cleared it after I explained the situation. No training. No drills. Just recover.”
Ghost stared at him for a beat, then gave a slow nod, the tension easing out of his shoulders. He wasn’t used to this—someone else making calls for his own good. It felt strange. Almost wrong. But the ache in his body told him it was probably smart.
König stood, unfolding his massive frame, and tossed a bundle of spare clothes onto the bed beside Ghost. “Shower first. You smell like blood and field dust. I’ll lead you to the private showers.”
Ghost caught the clothes—one pair of baggy black pants and a plain shirt. He looked them over, then glanced back up at König, eyes narrowing slightly behind the mask. “Got a hoodie instead of this shirt?”
König paused, then gave a small shrug. “Ja, I have one. But I wasn’t sure you’d want to wear it.”
Ghost tilted his head, the skull mask making the confused expression oddly endearing. “Why not?”
König’s eyes crinkled faintly at the corners. “It has my name on it. Didn’t think you’d want to walk around base looking like you belong to me.”
Ghost thought about it for a moment—really thought. The idea of wearing something with “König” stamped across the back should have made his skin crawl. Instead, after everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours, it felt… neutral. Maybe even grounding. No one here liked him anyway. Might as well lean into the new reality.
“It’s fine,” he said finally, voice flat but decided.
König gave a short nod and reached into his own locker, pulling out a large black hoodie. He tossed it over. The fabric was soft, oversized even for Ghost’s frame, with “KÖNIG” embroidered in stark white letters across the chest and back. Ghost caught it easily, running his gloved fingers over the lettering once before setting it aside with the pants.
With that settled, König headed for the door. “Come on. Private showers are just down the hall. Less chance of rookies staring.”
Ghost stood carefully, testing his weight on the injured ankle, and followed. He moved slower than usual, but the sleep had done him good. The pain was still there, layered and deep, but manageable now. He clutched the bundle of clothes to his chest as they walked the short distance, the oversized hoodie draped over one arm.
The private showers turned out to be a small, locked room with a single stall—clearly reserved for higher ranks or special cases. König unlocked it with a keycard and stepped aside, holding the door open.
“Take your time,” he said, voice low. “I’ll wait outside. Yell if you need anything.”
Ghost gave another small nod, stepping past the giant into the warm, tiled space. He paused at the threshold and glanced back once, eyes meeting König’s through the mask.
“…Thanks,” he muttered, the word awkward and quiet, almost lost under the mask.
König didn’t make a big deal of it. He simply dipped his hooded head in acknowledgment and closed the door behind Ghost, leaving him to the quiet rush of water and the strange new feeling of not being completely alone.
Ghost stripped slowly, peeling away the ruined gear and bloodied bandages with careful movements. When he finally stepped under the hot spray, the water hit his bruised skin like a mercy. He stood there for a long time, letting it wash away the grime, the tension, and a little bit of the walls he’d built since arriving at Kortac.
Outside the door, König waited like a silent sentinel—patient, solid, and for the first time, not an enemy.
Ghost stood under the hot spray far longer than he normally would have allowed himself. The water beat down on his bruised and stitched body like a gentle punishment, loosening the knots in his shoulders and dulling the constant ache in his ribs. Steam filled the small private stall, fogging the tiles. For once, he didn’t rush. He just let the warmth soak in, washing away layers of field dirt, dried blood, and weeks of tension. When he finally shut the water off, his skin was flushed and the pain had retreated to a manageable background hum.
He dried off carefully, re-taped the worst of the bandages with supplies left on the bench, and dressed in the clothes König had given him. The baggy black pants were loose and soft against his injuries. The oversized hoodie swallowed his shorter frame, the fabric thick and comforting, “KÖNIG” printed boldly across the chest and back in crisp white lettering. It smelled faintly of the colonel—gun oil, clean laundry, and something heavier, more grounded. Ghost kept his skull mask on, of course. That never came off in public. Not even here.
He folded his bloodied old clothes neatly, tucked them under one arm, and stepped out.
König was still waiting exactly where he’d left him, leaning against the opposite wall like a patient mountain. Those pale blue eyes swept over Ghost once—taking in the way the hoodie hung off his shoulders, the relaxed set of his posture—and gave a small, approving nod.
“Better?” König asked, voice low.
Ghost shrugged, the motion pulling only slightly at his ribs. “Yeah.”
They walked back to their shared quarters in comfortable silence. Ghost dropped the dirty laundry into the hamper König indicated, then the two of them headed toward the mess hall. The corridors felt different today. Operators still glanced their way, but the stares lingered longer on the sight of Ghost—mask still in place—walking beside the towering colonel wearing the man’s own hoodie. No one said a word. The rookies were conspicuously absent.
In the mess hall, König led them to a quiet corner table near the back. Ghost grabbed a large black coffee and a tray of simple food—protein, rice, something that wouldn’t upset his stomach after the painkillers. He sat across from König, the giant’s presence surprisingly non-intrusive. Around him, Ghost felt… fine. Not relaxed, exactly, but not braced for a fight either.
When it came time to eat, Ghost did something he rarely did in front of anyone: he lifted the bottom edge of the skull mask just enough to expose his mouth and jaw. The movement was casual, practiced. He took bites slowly, sipping the coffee between them, the steam curling up around the edge of the fabric.
König watched quietly at first, those blue eyes curious beneath the hood. Eventually he leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, voice pitched low so only Ghost could hear.
“You never take that mask off, do you?” There was no mockery in the tone—just genuine intrigue. “Not even to eat properly. I’ve seen men hide scars before… but yours seems different. Like it’s more than protection.” A faint pause, then a softer addition. “It suits you, though. The skull. Makes you look… untouchable.”
Ghost paused mid-bite, eyes flicking up to meet König’s through the mask’s slits. He chewed slowly, considering. The comment didn’t feel like an interrogation. It felt like interest. Real interest. The kind that made something warm and unfamiliar stir low in his chest.
He swallowed and took another sip of coffee before answering, voice muffled but steady. “Habit. Keeps people at a distance. Easier that way.” He lifted the mask edge again for another bite, jaw moving under the brief flash of pale skin. “Didn’t expect you to notice… or care.”
König’s eyes crinkled faintly at the corners, the hood shifting as he tilted his head. “Hard not to notice when you’re sitting right across from me wearing my name on your back.” There was a hint of dry humor there, but mostly that same quiet curiosity. “Makes me wonder what else is under there. Not pushing. Just… curious about the man I’m supposed to be watching.”
Ghost huffed a short breath that might have been amusement. He didn’t pull the mask down fully between bites, letting König catch small glimpses of his mouth and the faint stubble along his jaw. The giant didn’t stare rudely—he simply watched with that steady, intense focus, like he was cataloging every small detail.
For the first time since arriving at Kortac, Ghost didn’t feel like the enemy in the room.
He felt seen.
And around König, that didn’t feel like a threat anymore. It felt… almost nice.
He could feel König’s eyes on him the entire time—steady, focused, and mostly locked on the small sliver of pale skin and moving lips that the mask revealed. Every time Ghost took a sip of coffee or chewed, those pale blue eyes followed the motion with quiet intensity. König looked… content. Almost pleased, like he was enjoying the rare glimpse of the man beneath the legend. The Austrian giant didn’t hide it well; the faint crinkle at the corners of his eyes and the subtle lean forward said he was happy—genuinely happy—to get even this much of Ghost’s half-face.
Ghost set his fork down after a particularly large bite and wiped his mouth with the back of his gloved hand before lowering the mask edge again. He noticed the way König’s gaze lingered a second longer than necessary on his jawline before flicking back up to his eyes.
“You really like getting in my business, don’t you?” Ghost muttered, voice low and dry, though there was no real bite behind it. “Watching me eat like it’s a fucking show.”
König didn’t deny it. He simply tilted his hooded head, the corner of his mouth twitching faintly under the fabric. “Can’t help it. You hide everything. Seeing even this much… it’s something.”
Ghost huffed and reached for his empty mug, already planning to get a refill. “I’m getting more coffee.”
Before he could stand, König slid a fresh, steaming mug across the table toward him with one large hand. The movement was smooth, casual, like he’d been waiting for the moment.
“No sugar,” König said quietly, voice carrying that thick Austrian accent. “A little bit of milk. Just how you like it.”
Ghost froze mid-reach, fingers hovering over the handle. He stared at the mug, then slowly lifted his gaze to meet König’s eyes through the mask. The giant was watching him again—calm, knowing, almost soft around the edges.
“…How the fuck do you know that?” Ghost asked, the question slipping out before he could stop it. His voice was quieter than he intended, edged with genuine surprise. How much did König actually know about him? The preference for black coffee with just a splash of milk wasn’t something he advertised. It wasn’t written in any file. It was one of those tiny, personal details he kept locked away with everything else.
König leaned back slightly in his chair, broad shoulders rolling in a small shrug. The hoodie Ghost was wearing suddenly felt a little warmer, the embroidered “KÖNIG” on his chest a silent reminder of how close they were sitting. “I pay attention. You’ve been here long enough for me to notice things. The way you fix your coffee in the mornings when you think no one’s looking. How you avoid the sweet stuff after missions. Small details.”
Ghost wrapped his fingers around the warm mug, thumb tracing the rim. He didn’t know what to say. Part of him wanted to snap back, to rebuild the wall and tell the Austrian to mind his own damn business. But another part—the tired, bruised part that had slept better last night than in months—felt oddly exposed in a way that wasn’t entirely bad. König had been watching. Not in a creepy way, not like the rookies or the guards who turned their backs. Just… paying attention. Caring enough to remember.
“You’re nosy as hell,” Ghost finally muttered, but he lifted the mask edge again, took a slow sip of the perfectly prepared coffee, and let the warmth settle in his chest. It tasted exactly right. “Didn’t think you’d bother learning shit like that about me.”
König’s eyes softened further, the pale blue gaze drifting once more to Ghost’s partially revealed mouth before returning to his eyes. “I bother because you’re under my watch now. And maybe… because I want to know the man behind the skull a little better.” He paused, then added with a faint, rare hint of humor, “Especially when he’s wearing my name on his back.”
Ghost didn’t pull the mask down right away. He took another sip instead, letting König have the small victory of seeing the faint twitch at the corner of his lips. The mess hall noise faded into the background. Around König, the walls felt thinner. The hatred that had once burned hot between them had cooled into something quieter, warmer, more dangerous in its own way.
Ghost set the mug down and gave a small, reluctant nod. “Guess you’re not as much of a bastard as I thought.”
König didn’t reply with words. He just kept watching—quiet, intrigued, and clearly interested in peeling back another layer of the Ghost he was now responsible for.
Ghost let out a low, rough chuckle, the sound muffled slightly by the edge of his mask as he set the empty mug down on the tray. The noise was rare—almost foreign coming from him—but genuine. He shook his head once, eyes narrowing with a mix of amusement and disbelief behind the skull plate.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he muttered, voice still carrying that tired gravel. “You really do watch me like a hawk, don’t you? Not just the obvious shit… you’ve been secretly learning all the little things too.” He leaned back in his chair, the oversized hoodie shifting comfortably over his bandaged torso. “Nosy Austrian bastard.”
König didn’t look embarrassed. If anything, the faint crinkle at the corners of his eyes deepened, those pale blue eyes still fixed on the small sliver of Ghost’s jaw and mouth that remained visible. “Guilty,” he admitted quietly, no shame in it. “Hard not to when you’re this… guarded. Makes the small details feel like a win.”
Ghost finished the last sip of coffee, the warm liquid settling nicely in his stomach alongside the food and painkillers. The mess hall was starting to thin out around them, but he barely noticed. For once, the weight of eyes on him didn’t feel hostile. It felt… curious. Almost careful. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand again and lowered the mask fully back into place, the familiar skull fabric settling against his skin like armor.
With his tray cleared and the day stretching empty ahead of him—no training, no drills, no forced interactions—he felt strangely untethered. The rest of the afternoon and evening were his, and for the first time in weeks he didn’t know what the hell to do with the freedom. He wasn’t used to rest days. Wasn’t used to having someone actually looking out for whether he took one.
He glanced across the table at König, tilting his head slightly. “Got anything in mind for the rest of the day? Since you’re the one who cleared my schedule.”
König studied him for a moment, those intense blue eyes thoughtful under the hood. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, the sheer size of him making the standard-issue furniture look small. “Drinking at our dorm?” he offered, voice low and casual, though there was a careful note beneath it. “Nothing heavy. Just something to help you relax. You’ve earned it after the last few days. No one bothering you. No rookies. Just… quiet. You can take the mask off if you want. Or keep it on. Your choice.”
Ghost considered it, fingers tapping once against the empty mug. Drinking sounded… nice, actually. Something to take the edge off the lingering aches and the strange new tension of sharing space with König. He wasn’t one for getting sloppy, but a couple of drinks in the privacy of their quarters? That he could handle. Especially if it meant avoiding the rest of the base for a while longer.
“Yeah,” Ghost said after a beat, pushing his chair back and standing slowly. His injuries protested with a dull throb, but the sleep and food had helped. “Alright. Let’s do that.”
König rose as well, towering over him once more. There was no gloating in his posture—just quiet satisfaction at the small step forward. As they left the mess hall side by side, Ghost in the oversized hoodie bearing König’s name, the giant fell into step easily beside him, close enough that their arms nearly brushed.
The walk back to their shared dorm was short and quiet. Once inside, König locked the door behind them and moved to the small cabinet in the corner, pulling out a bottle of decent whiskey and two glasses. Ghost dropped onto his side of the pushed-together bunks, still wearing the hoodie and baggy pants, mask firmly in place for now. He watched as König poured a modest measure into each glass and handed one over.
They drank in companionable silence at first, the whiskey smooth and warming. Ghost felt the tension in his shoulders slowly unwind. Around König, he was starting to realize, he didn’t have to be constantly on guard. The man was still massive, still intense, still the enemy from old operations… but right now, he felt like the only solid thing in a sea of hostility.
Ghost might’ve overdone it with the whiskey.
Or maybe that had been König’s plan all along—to loosen the tightly wound Brit enough to let some of those iron walls crack. Ghost wasn’t blind. He could see the way König watched him, the quiet hunger beneath the careful concern. The colonel wanted something. Someone. He just hadn’t figured out exactly what shape that want would take yet. Right now, though, Ghost was too fuzzy around the edges to care much.
The bottle was more than half empty. Ghost sat on the edge of the pushed-together bunks, legs stretched out, still wearing König’s oversized hoodie and the baggy pants. The skull mask had stayed on longer than expected, but after the third glass he’d finally tugged the bottom half up just enough to breathe easier, exposing his mouth, jaw, and the faint shadow of stubble. His words were starting to slur at the edges, not sloppy drunk but definitely loose—enough that his usual sharp guard had dulled into something slower, warmer.
“Fuckin’ hell, König,” he muttered, rolling the glass between his gloved fingers. The whiskey burned pleasantly in his chest, mixing with the painkillers and the leftover ache from his injuries. “You trying to get me wasted on purpose? Thought you were supposed to be watching me, not pouring me under the table.”
König sat across from him in the chair, nursing his own drink far more slowly. Those pale blue eyes hadn’t left Ghost for long all evening. They tracked every small movement—the way Ghost’s shoulders had relaxed, the rare glimpses of his lower face, the way the hoodie hung loose on his shorter frame with “KÖNIG” stamped across it like a claim.
“Maybe,” König admitted, voice low and rough with that thick Austrian accent. A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth under the hood. “You needed to loosen up. You’ve been wound tighter than a spring since you got here. Figured a little whiskey might help you remember you’re allowed to breathe.”
Ghost let out a short, raspy laugh and took another sip, the mask edge staying lifted. His eyes were glassy again, but this time from the alcohol instead of pain or exhaustion. “You’re a sneaky bastard, you know that? Always watching. Always noticing shit. The coffee. The way I eat. Now this.” He gestured vaguely at the bottle between them. “What’s next? Gonna start picking my fights for me too?”
König leaned forward, elbows on his knees, massive frame somehow still graceful in the small room. His gaze dropped once more to Ghost’s exposed jaw and mouth, lingering there with open interest. “I want to know you, Ghost. Not just the skull and the reputation. The rest of it. The parts you keep buried.”
Ghost stared at him for a long moment, the whiskey making his thoughts slow and honest. He could feel the heat in his face, the way the alcohol had stripped away some of the instinctive hostility. Around König, the old hatred had faded into something charged and uncertain. He wasn’t sure he hated it.
“Yeah, well… you’re getting more than most people ever do,” Ghost said, voice quieter now, a little rougher. He lifted the glass again, finishing the last of it before setting it aside. “Don’t let it go to your head, Austrian.”
The room felt smaller, the air thicker. Ghost’s injuries were a distant throb thanks to the drinks and meds. He leaned back on his hands, the hoodie riding up slightly to show a strip of bandaged torso. He didn’t bother fixing it. Didn’t feel the need to hide quite so much tonight.
König’s eyes followed the movement, then returned to Ghost’s face—steady, patient, and undeniably wanting. “I won’t,” he murmured. “But I’m not stopping either.”
Ghost didn’t reply right away. He just sat there in the warm, hazy quiet of their shared dorm, drunk enough to let the silence stretch without filling it with insults or walls.
Ghost was definitely getting there.
He had drained more than half the bottle by himself, glass after glass disappearing under the edge of his lifted mask. König kept encouraging him gently—topping up the glass with a low “one more won’t hurt” or “you’re safe here, just relax”—and Ghost hadn’t put up much resistance. The whiskey sat warm and heavy in his stomach, spreading out through his veins until the sharp edges of pain, tension, and constant vigilance blurred into something soft and distant. Not blackout drunk, but close enough that the room felt pleasantly fuzzy and his limbs were heavy in the best way.
He groaned softly, leaning back on the bunk with one arm draped over his bandaged ribs. The hoodie—König’s hoodie—had ridden up again, showing the white tape crossing his torso. “Fuck… this dulls everything so nicely,” he muttered, voice low and rough, the words slurring just a little at the edges. “Gonna regret it tomorrow though.”
König watched him from the chair, still mostly in control despite the few glasses he’d had. The giant was tipsy, sure—his accent thicker, movements a fraction slower—but nowhere near as gone as Ghost. Those pale blue eyes stayed sharp, curious, and quietly hungry.
Ghost lifted his glass again, finishing what was left before setting it aside with a clumsy clink. “If you don’t cancel my day tomorrow too, I’ll kill you,” he grumbled, half-serious, half-laughing under his breath. “This hangover’s gonna be your fault, Austrian. Technically your doing.”
König gave a low chuckle, the sound deep and rumbling. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hood casting soft shadows over most of his face. “We’ll see about tomorrow. For now… tell me something real, Ghost. Why do you keep the mask on even when you’re alone with me? What are you hiding under there that no one gets to see?”
Ghost didn’t answer. He just stared at the ceiling, glassy eyes half-lidded, letting the question hang in the warm, whiskey-scented air. König waited, then tried again, voice gentler but still pressing.
“What about before Kortac? The 141… they were your people. Why did it feel like you never really let them in either?”
Still nothing. Ghost’s jaw tightened beneath the lifted mask, but he kept his mouth shut. He wasn’t that far gone. Not yet. He wouldn’t spill his guts just because the alcohol made everything feel softer.
König’s disappointment was visible in the slight drop of his shoulders, the way his eyes narrowed. He let out a low, frustrated growl—deep in his chest, almost animal.
Ghost finally turned his head, a lazy, drunken chuckle escaping him. “Ask when I’m sober, König. Not tonight. You’re not getting my life story while I’m half-cut.”
The growl deepened for a second, then faded. König rubbed a hand over his hood, clearly annoyed but not pushing harder. Ghost smirked faintly behind the mask and tilted his head, studying the bigger man with hazy interest.
“What about you?” Ghost asked, words slow and a little thick. “You said you want to know me. So tell me—what do you think of me, really? You’ve been circling me like you want something. What is it?”
König went quiet for a moment, those pale blue eyes locking onto Ghost’s exposed mouth and jaw again. Even tipsy, he was far more in control—voice steady, posture relaxed but deliberate. He took a slow sip from his own glass before answering, the words coming out low and honest.
“I think you’re a stubborn, angry bastard who’s been carrying too much alone for too long,” König said, accent thick. “Strong. Deadly. But lonely. I see the way you flinch when someone gets too close, the way you expect every hand to be a fist. And I think… I want to be the one who gets past that. The one you don’t have to fight all the time.” He paused, eyes drifting over Ghost’s relaxed form in his hoodie. “You look good in my clothes, Ghost. Suits you better than you want to admit.”
Ghost let out another soft chuckle, the sound warm and unguarded for once. He didn’t argue. Didn’t snap back with an insult. He just lay there, drunk and hazy, letting König’s words settle over him like another layer of warmth.
The night stretched on in their quiet shared dorm, the bottle between them nearly empty, the air thick with whiskey and unspoken want. Ghost wasn’t ready to bare everything yet.
But he was getting closer.
Ghost lay there on the bunk, the whiskey humming warmly through his veins, turning his thoughts slow and heavy. König’s words kept echoing in his head—*stubborn, angry bastard… lonely… the one you don’t have to fight all the time.*
He stared at the ceiling, mask still half-lifted, jaw exposed. The words dug deeper than they should have. Since Soap—MacTavish—had died, everything had felt… hollow. Like the ground under his feet had cracked and he’d been walking the edge ever since. Maybe that was why he pushed everyone away. Maybe he wasn’t just guarded. Maybe he was fucking terrified of losing anyone else. Even if that someone was the towering Austrian bastard currently watching him like he was the most interesting thing in the room.
Ghost swallowed, the movement visible along his throat. His voice came out quieter than he meant it to, rough and a little raw from the drink.
“Promise me something, König.”
The giant tilted his head, pale blue eyes steady. “What?”
Ghost turned his head just enough to meet that gaze. “Don’t ever die.”
König blinked once, then gave a slow, easy nod, the corner of his mouth twitching faintly under the hood. “Sure. I won’t die.”
It was the kind of promise you gave a drunk man—simple agreement, no questions, no pushback. Better to go along with it than risk setting off whatever storm was brewing behind those glassy eyes. But out of Ghost’s line of sight, König’s eyes narrowed slightly, sharp with curiosity. The words had weight. Real weight. Not just drunken nonsense. There was history there, pain, something deeper that Ghost wasn’t ready to explain tonight. Fuck, he wanted to ask. Wanted to peel that layer back and see what lay underneath. But he held his tongue. For now.
Ghost let out a long breath, the tension easing out of his shoulders as he accepted the answer. “Good,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Can’t lose anyone else. Not again.”
He shifted on the bunk, the oversized hoodie bunching around him, “KÖNIG” lettering stark against the black fabric. The movement made the fabric ride up again, exposing more of the bandaged torso beneath. Ghost didn’t bother fixing it. The alcohol had stripped away most of his usual armor, leaving him loose and unguarded in a way he rarely allowed.
König stayed in his chair, still far more in control than the shorter man sprawled across from him. He took a small sip of his own drink, watching Ghost with that intense, quiet focus—eyes tracing the exposed jaw, the way his throat worked when he swallowed, the rare vulnerability on display.
The silence stretched, comfortable in its drunken haze. Ghost’s breathing slowed, heavy with whiskey and exhaustion, but his mind kept turning König’s promise over like a talisman.
Maybe he really was that alone.
Maybe he was scared.
And maybe, just maybe, letting König this close wasn’t the worst idea he’d ever had.
König didn’t press. Not tonight.
But the curiosity burned behind his narrowed eyes, and he filed the moment away for later—when Ghost was sober and the walls weren’t quite so thin.
Ghost groaned low in his throat, the whiskey sitting like a heavy, warm blanket over his entire body. It dulled the pain beautifully, but it also made everything feel too heavy, too slow. He tried to push himself up on one elbow, intending to reach for the water bottle on the nightstand, but his arm gave out halfway. He collapsed back onto the bunk with a soft thud, the room spinning lazily above him.
“Fuck…” he muttered, eyes half-lidded behind the half-lifted mask. “This shit hits harder than I thought.”
König watched him from the chair, still mostly steady despite the alcohol in his own system. Those pale blue eyes were patient, but there was one question burning behind them—the one he’d been dying to ask since Ghost had been dropped into Kortac like an unwanted package.
He leaned forward slightly, voice low and careful. “One last question, Ghost. Why did you really transfer here? Price didn’t just send you for ‘protection.’ What happened?”
Ghost stayed flat on his back for a long moment, staring at the ceiling as the words sank in. He didn’t want to answer. Didn’t want to drag any of that shit back up tonight. But the whiskey had loosened his tongue just enough, and some stubborn part of him figured fair was fair—if he was letting König see even this much, the bastard deserved a scrap in return.
He exhaled slowly, the sound rough.
“Comms leak. People started targeting me. Price thought Kortac could hide me better.” Ghost’s voice was vague, clipped, dismissive—like he was reading off a report he didn’t care about. “Didn’t want to come. Didn’t need it. That’s it.”
Barely a full sentence. No details about the threats, the bodies that had started piling up too close to 141, the way Price had practically forced the transfer order down his throat. Nothing about how it had felt like exile.
König’s eyes narrowed again, the disappointment flickering briefly before he masked it. It wasn’t much. Barely anything. But it was something.
Ghost turned his head just enough to look at the giant, glassy eyes meeting pale blue. “Your turn. You know something about me now. So tell me something real about you, König. Why the fuck do you care so much? Why push for the shared room, the watching, all of it?”
He let the question hang there, heavy with whiskey and the fragile new tension between them. The room felt smaller, the air thicker. Ghost’s breathing was slow and deep, the alcohol pulling at him hard now, but he stayed awake just long enough to hear whatever König might give him in return.
König didn’t answer immediately. He simply studied the shorter man sprawled across the bunk in his own hoodie, the faint curiosity and want still burning quietly behind his eyes.
Ghost groaned again and forced himself to sit up, the room tilting dangerously for a second. He shook his head slowly, trying to clear some of the heavy whiskey fog, though it only made the spinning worse. The oversized hoodie slipped off one shoulder, exposing more of the white bandages crossing his chest. He steadied himself with one hand on the bunk and looked straight at König, eyes glassy but focused enough.
“Answer me,” Ghost said, voice low and rough, the words a little thick but insistent. “You heard what I said. Your turn.”
König didn’t repeat the softer things he’d said earlier about loneliness or wanting to get past Ghost’s walls. He simply held that steady gaze, pale blue eyes calm even through the haze of his own light buzz. His massive frame leaned forward slightly in the chair, elbows resting on his knees, hood casting soft shadows over most of his face.
“I care about you, Ghost,” he said quietly, the Austrian accent thick and warm in the quiet room. “More than I probably should. I want to keep you safe here. I want to make sure you’re not alone anymore.” He paused, letting the words settle, then added in a lower, careful tone, “And maybe… I want something more than that. But that can wait. Later. When you’re sober and not about to pass out on my bunk.”
Ghost stared at him for a long moment, the confession hanging between them like smoke. No grand declarations. No pressure. Just simple honesty wrapped in that deep, rumbling voice. The idea of “something more” sent a slow, uncertain heat through Ghost’s chest—something that felt dangerous and new, especially with the alcohol making everything softer and louder at the same time.
He didn’t snap back with an insult. Didn’t laugh it off. He just nodded once, slow and heavy, then let himself drop back against the pillows with a tired sigh. The mask edge stayed lifted, jaw relaxed, the faint stubble visible in the low light.
“Fine,” Ghost murmured, eyes drifting shut. “Later, then… Austrian.”
König stayed in the chair a while longer, watching the shorter man breathe slow and deep as sleep started pulling him under again. The curiosity about Ghost’s vague transfer story and the deeper meaning behind that drunken “don’t ever die” promise still lingered in the back of his mind, but he didn’t push. Not tonight.
The shared room stayed quiet and warm, the nearly empty whiskey bottle on the floor between them a silent reminder of the small, careful steps they were taking toward each other.
Ghost was already half-asleep when König finally stood, moving carefully so he wouldn’t disturb him. For the first time since the transfer, the silence between them didn’t feel like enemy lines.
It felt like the start of something else.
Ghost woke slowly, the warm morning light filtering through the small window and hitting the top of his skull mask. His head throbbed with a dull, punishing hangover, the kind that made every heartbeat feel like a hammer behind his eyes. The whiskey from last night had been a mistake—his mouth tasted like ash, his ribs and stitched thigh ached worse than yesterday, and the heavy painkillers had left a thick fog in his brain.
He opened his eyes fully and froze.
König was sleeping right there, very close on the pushed-together bunks. The giant had shifted during the night, his massive frame taking up most of the shared space, hood still up but slightly askew. One heavy arm was draped loosely near Ghost’s side, their bodies only inches apart. Ghost wasn’t used to this—waking up to someone else’s warmth, someone else’s breathing so near. It felt too intimate. Too exposed.
He reached out and nudged König’s shoulder with his gloved hand, voice rough and low. “Hey. Move over, you oversized—”
König’s reaction was instant and violent.
His eyes snapped open—pale blue and wild for a split second. One massive hand shot out and seized Ghost’s wrist in a crushing grip. At the same time, the other hand flashed up, a combat dagger already drawn from somewhere under the pillow, the cold blade pressed firmly against Ghost’s throat, right where the mask ended and skin began. König’s body tensed like a coiled spring, ready to kill.
Ghost’s heart slammed once, hard, but he didn’t flinch. He just groaned in pure annoyance, hangover sharpening his irritation, and shoved hard at König’s chest with his free hand.
“Fuck’s sake, König,” he growled, voice gravelly and thick with sleep and pain. “It’s me. You’re pulling this shit now? I’m already hungover as hell because of your brilliant idea last night, and you greet me with a knife to the throat?”
König blinked, the fog of sudden wakefulness clearing fast. Recognition flooded his eyes. The dagger lowered immediately, disappearing back under the pillow as he released Ghost’s wrist like it burned him. He sat up halfway, broad shoulders tense, hood shifting back into place.
“Scheiße—Ghost,” he muttered, the German curse slipping out before he switched fully to English. “Sorry. Old habit. Thought someone was attacking.”
Ghost rubbed his wrist where König had grabbed it, glaring at the taller man through the mask. He shoved König’s shoulder again, weaker this time because of the hangover and lingering injuries, but still pointed. “Yeah, well, next time try not turning our shared bunk into a fucking battlefield before I even get a coffee. My head’s splitting and now I’ve got adrenaline on top of it. Brilliant.”
König exhaled slowly, running a hand over his hood as he fully sat up, putting a little more space between them. His eyes lingered on Ghost—taking in the rumpled hoodie still bearing his own name, the way Ghost was hunched against the headache, the faint flush of irritation on the visible skin around the mask.
“You slept through the night,” König said quietly, voice calmer now.
Ghost grunted, swinging his legs over the edge of the bunk with a wince. “Don’t get used to it. And don’t think I’ve forgotten you said you’d cancel my schedule today if I needed it. Because right now? I might actually kill you if you make me run drills with this hangover.”
He stayed seated for a moment longer, the closeness of König’s body during the night still registering in the back of his mind. It was strange. Unsettling in a way that wasn’t entirely bad.
But the knife to the throat had definitely killed any lingering softness from last night.
For now.