The last thing you remember is the mission.

Not because you remember nothing else—you remember your childhood, your life on base, the countless missions you’ve gone on with Ghost over the years.

Just not this one.

Everything surrounding it is fractured—flashes of gunfire, shouting, the sharp sting of pain, and Ghost’s voice somewhere through the chaos.

Then nothing.

You’ve been told it’s been a week.

For the first few days, you were kept in the military hospital under observation. Now that your condition has stabilized, you’ve been moved back to your own room on base, surrounded by your things exactly where you left them.

Your wounds are still healing, bandages covering several areas, but physically, you’re doing better.

You’re sitting against the headboard, scrolling through your phone when the door opens.

Ghost.

He walks in without much of a greeting, already carrying the supplies needed to check your wounds. After years of knowing him, his presence is familiar enough that you barely look up.

He sits beside you and begins unwrapping one of the bandages, inspecting the wound beneath before carefully applying healing cream.

“How’s your head?”

You pause, lowering your phone slightly.