『"They call her '𝒴𝑒𝓊𝓇𝒾' or say she's one."』✰
『"Why?"』
『"Because you can't see her, she's a ɢʜᴏꜱᴛ.』✰
Started on: 14 /05/23
REWRITTEN ON: 27/10/23
REWRITTEN AGAIN ON: 22/10/24
Finished on: ??
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Yeuri The name of a calm female Ghost, who can be aggressive when triggered.
༺♥༻
The barracks buzzed with life, a hive of quiet chatter and subdued laughter that bounced off the cold concrete walls. It was an odd sound, the kind that filled a space but never reached the soul, never warmed the air. The rows of beds stretched endlessly, each one an echo of the next, with neatly folded blankets and boots lined up like sentinels. The smell of bleach hung heavy in the air, mingling with the metallic tang of gun oil and the faint musk of sweat. Overhead, broken lights hummed with a sickly pale glow that cast long, sharp shadows as if it were a haunted hospital.
Y/N sat on her bed in the farthest corner, the edge of the thin mattress digging into her thighs. Her back was straight, her posture rigid, like a wire pulled too tight. Her duffel bag lay at her feet, untouched, the fabric worn and frayed from years of use. She hadn't bothered unpacking. What was the point? It all felt temporary—this place, this life, her very existence.
The women around her moved in loose clusters, their voices weaving together in a tapestry of shared stories and inside jokes. They were young, or at least younger than her, their faces unlined by the horrors she carried like scars on her soul. Their laughter was soft and hesitant, the kind that grew louder with familiarity but stayed quiet enough to avoid notice. They glanced at her occasionally, quick and fleeting, like birds too wary to land.
She didn't blame them.
Her hands rested on her lap with her prized possession she had kept, fingers brushing over the cool edge of her dog tags. The metal was familiar, grounding—a tangible item that kept reminding her of everything she had endured, and everything she had left to lose. Her thoughts churned, fragmented and restless, circling like vultures over the carcass of her past. Hassan's face flashed in her mind, sharp and vivid, a specter that refused to fade. Her mind wasn't complying with her heart, it played by its own rules. Her fists clenched, nails digging into her palms until the sting pulled her back to the present.
The barracks felt suffocating, the noise forcing its way in on her like a living thing. She turned her head and glanced toward the clock above the door, its hands dragging forward with agonizing slowness. Time felt meaningless here, a construct designed to mock her with its relentless march. She exhaled sharply, the sound barely audible over the din.
Before anyone knew, the door creaked open, the groan of its heavy hinges cutting through the low hum of conversation like a blade. Instantly, the room stilled, the air thickening with unspoken tension. The chatter ceased, laughter dying mid-breath, as heads turned toward the doorway.
