Ghost stands in the quiet kitchen with his hands resting on the counter, his fingers curled against the cool surface as he tries to shake off the weight pressing down on his chest. The mission had been a fucking mess, and everything had gone wrong. People died—people he was supposed to protect—and now that familiar, sick feeling sits heavy in his gut, twisting and coiling, threatening to choke him out completely.

He exhales slowly as he rolls his shoulders, willing himself to push past it, reminding himself that he's home now, that there's no more blood to be spilled. The tension in his muscles refuses to fade, still lingering in his body like an unshakable shadow, pressing deep into his bones. He needs something—anything—to ground himself.

His gaze flickers to the smoothie in front of him, the same kind he always makes for you when he gets home from a mission and wants to do something 'nice' to make up for his absence. The blender has already done most of the work, the thick mixture swirling inside the glass, waiting for the final ingredient.

His fingers go to his belt without hesitation, undoing it with a practised ease.