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Flashback - Ghost's POV

He always saw more than he let on.

Nora had this way about her-like a ghost caught between breathing and breaking. She moved quiet. Lingered in corners. Never asked for anything. Never demanded attention. And that made it worse.

Because it made her pain easy to ignore.

But he saw it.

He always had.

The first time he noticed her wrists was after a mission gone south, months back. She'd come to his room in silence, like she always did-eyes tired, steps small. She hadn't said a word, just let him push her up against the wall like she needed it to breathe. Like she needed him.

And he let her.

Again.

But after, when she was turned away from him, tugging her shirt down, he'd caught sight of the raw skin circling her wrists. Angry, red lines. Like she'd been scratching herself too hard. Too deep.

Like she didn't want to feel nothing anymore.

He didn't ask.

Didn't say a word.

He just turned away. Lit a cigarette. Watched the smoke curl around his fingers and pretended like it didn't dig into him like barbed wire.

Because if he started asking, if he cared out loud, it would break the rules. And the rules were all he had.

---

It only got worse after that.

She stopped showing up to the mess hall.

Stopped lingering near the others. Not that she was ever loud-but she wasn't there anymore. He'd catch her slipping out early, plate untouched. Eyes hollow. She looked thinner. Pale.

Like the world was draining her dry and she didn't even have the strength to stop it.

And still, she kept coming to him.

Like a moth to a flame that had never once promised it wouldn't burn.

She'd knock on his door, sometimes not even waiting for an answer. And he let her in, let her touch him, let her press herself against him like he was the last solid thing in her world.

And every time, it looked like it might be the last time she could take it.

She always clung too hard. Breathed too fast. Shuddered under his hands like she was trying to lose herself in the pain and the pleasure. Like she was trying to disappear inside it.

Her hands would tremble against his skin, and she'd blink too much-like she was holding back tears.

Sometimes, she failed.

And still, he let it happen.

Because he couldn't give her more.

So he gave her what little he had.

But never enough.

---

He remembered one night, the hallway empty when she passed him in the morning. Her curls were tied up, but messy, falling around her face like they couldn't stand the weight anymore.

She offered him a soft smile.

It barely touched her lips.

And he didn't give her one back.

Just stared. Cold. Detached. Like she meant nothing.

Her smile broke in half. Disappeared before he even turned the corner.

He hated himself for that.

But not enough to stop.

---

He always made her leave.

Afterwards.

Never let her stay.

Even when her eyes pleaded with him, even when her hands lingered too long against his chest, even when she curled into the sheets like she wanted to forget the world.

"Get dressed," he'd say. Always the same. Harsh. Low. Cold.

And she'd nod.

Even when she looked like it was killing her.

She'd tug her clothes back on in silence, trying to hide the shake in her fingers. Trying not to look at him. And he wouldn't touch her. Wouldn't hold her after. Wouldn't even look at her.

He treated her like a secret.

Like a mistake he kept making on purpose.

And she... she treated him like he was the only reason she hadn't already fallen apart.

---

He saw it all.

The way she pulled further into herself after every time.

How she stopped laughing. Stopped smiling. How even her voice-already so quiet-started disappearing altogether.

She looked in mirrors like she hated what stared back.

She touched his skin like it was the only thing that didn't make her feel dirty, even when he made her feel worse than anyone.

And still, she kept coming back.

Because he was the only thing she had.

And that was the worst part.

Because he knew.

He knew exactly how much he was hurting her.

And he still did nothing to stop it.

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