The med bay was empty, sterile, and smelling faintly of antiseptic. The hum of a single overhead light filled the space like a ticking clock counting down seconds of restraint.

Nyra stormed inside, boots echoing against the metal floor, wrench still clutched loosely in one hand. She didn't pause. Ghost had been standing at the edge of the bay, quiet as ever, his mask gleaming under the harsh light.

"You saw him!" Her voice broke, sharp enough to ricochet off the walls. "You were there. You saw Milo, and you didn't tell me. Not a word!"

Ghost didn't flinch. Didn't blink. His hands rested at his sides, gloved and still, the slightest flick of movement enough to betray him as a man who had calculated every step a dozen times before moving.

"I failed to save him," Ghost said finally, voice low, rough, like gravel dragged across metal. "I saw your brother. I tried. I couldn't."

Nyra froze for a heartbeat, the wrench clattering to the floor beside her. The words were simple, devastating, and somehow heavier than any gunshot or explosion she had ever survived.

Her chest heaved, a storm of emotion threatening to split her in two. "You—what?!" She stumbled forward, gripping the edge of a med bed for support. "You tried? You watched him die—or almost die—and you didn't tell me? For years? Do you even realize what that feels like?"

Ghost's posture didn't change. The mask was still, impassive, but she saw it—the tiny flicker at the edge of his attention.

A pause, a calculation, a human hesitation buried beneath layers of training and survival.

"You wouldn't have understood," he said finally, quiet, almost resigned. "Some failures… don't deserve forgiveness."

Nyra's honey eyes flashed, anger burning like a neon warning light inside her chest. She clenched her fists at her sides.

"Don't give me that bullshit! Don't—" Her voice cracked. "Don't tell me I wouldn't have understood! You were supposed to protect him! You were supposed to—"

Ghost cut her off with a soft, measured step forward, slow and deliberate, a predator contained only by discipline. "I did what I could."

Nyra laughed bitterly, a sound like broken glass sliding across concrete. "What you could? What you could was let me believe he was dead for years! You—you let me live with that!"

She pressed her hands against her temples, forcing herself to breathe, to ground herself. "Do you know how that feels? To watch footage, see him alive, and realize he was never safe? Because you—"

"I failed," Ghost interrupted again, voice low, carrying the weight of a confession he had buried for too long. "I failed. I failed him. I failed you. And I accept that."

Nyra's pulse spiked. She wanted to scream, to shove him, to hurt him the way she felt hurt inside. But the mask—the relentless, unyielding mask—kept her at bay.

She couldn't touch the man; she could barely touch the human underneath it. And yet, in that quiet space, his words hit her harder than any bullet ever could.

"You accept it?" she spat. "You accept that you let me live in lies for years? That you let him… that you let me suffer?" Her voice shook with the force of it. "Do you even understand what that feels like, Ghost?"

He didn't answer. He couldn't. Not with words. His grey eyes met hers through the skull pattern of the mask, unblinking, cold, and somehow… sorry. Regret laced the edges of his presence, but he offered no defense, no excuse. Just the bare truth of the failure, as unmovable as the concrete walls around them.

Nyra's fists clenched, shaking slightly, not from fear but from the storm of betrayal and anguish coursing through her. She had expected enemies, contractors, danger—but never this. Never him. Never the man who had been her protector, her silent guardian, turning into the source of her most personal torment.

"You could have told me," she whispered, voice dropping to a broken edge. "Any part of the truth. Any part. Would it have killed you to let me know that he… that Milo survived?"

Ghost's gloved hands tightened at his sides. The sound was faint, like leather stretching. His entire posture shifted, subtle, but enough to make her pause. He was silent, as if speaking would fracture the fragile line he had drawn between failure and acceptance.

"I tried," he said finally, again, the words simple, understated, devastating in their finality. "I tried. I couldn't save him."

Nyra stepped closer, her body trembling with rage and grief. "You could have told me. You could have let me fight with you, plan,—" She swallowed. Her voice broke entirely. "You could have let me do something. Anything. But instead you carried it alone."

Ghost remained still. Masked, immovable, grey eyes locked on her. The weight of everything unspoken pressed down between them, suffocating, inescapable.

"I hate you," Nyra said finally. Not a scream. Not a shout. Just a quiet, trembling statement that hung in the air like a knife.

"I hate you for keeping this from me. I hate you for making me live like he was gone. I hate you for failing him. For failing me. For—" She stopped, unable to finish. The words were too sharp to release entirely.

Ghost tilted his head slightly. That small gesture—almost imperceptible—was acknowledgment. Not apology, not defense, but recognition. He let her hate him. He accepted it.

"You have every right," he said softly, voice rough. Gravel over steel. "I am… responsible. I accept that. Your hatred is… justified."

Nyra's knees nearly buckled. Anger and relief collided, creating a vertigo of emotion she couldn't name. She wanted to reach for him. She wanted to shake him. She wanted to collapse entirely. She did none of it. Instead, she breathed, long, shaky inhales, letting the room carry the echo of her pain.

"I… I need time," she whispered, voice trembling. "I can't—can't just forget that you watched him and let me believe he was dead. Not yet."

Ghost didn't argue. Didn't approach. Didn't retreat. He simply stood there, masked, silent, unyielding in the space he had carved for himself between duty and guilt.

"You won't get forgiveness," he said finally. Not a plea. Not a demand. Just the truth. "Not today. Not tomorrow. Maybe never. I can live with that. I can survive that."

Nyra's fingers curled at her sides. Her teeth clenched against the urge to throw herself at him. "Maybe never," she echoed. And in that echo, she admitted something she hadn't intended—her anger was so fierce because it was tied to care. To loss. To love she couldn't fully articulate without breaking.

"I need… space," she said, finally stepping back. "To process… all of this. Alone."

Ghost inclined his head just slightly. Not acknowledgment. Not concession. Just understanding. And in that still, sterile med bay, they both understood that what had just been said—the admission, the betrayal, the rage, the guilt—would linger longer than any scar, longer than any mission, longer than any whispered promise.

Nyra turned, boots echoing against the cold floor, leaving Ghost standing in silence, the weight of failure and protection pressing down like the mask he never removed. She didn't look back.

He didn't move. He didn't breathe too loudly. He waited.

And he would wait.

Because some failures were too heavy to share, even with the one person who deserved the truth the most.