The door slammed behind you with a sound that felt too final.

He was already standing there. Boots planted. Shoulders squared. His boonie hat tossed aside on the table like it no longer mattered who he was supposed to be.

“Sit,” he said. Not a suggestion. Not even a command. Just finality. His voice was rougher than usual—rasped like gravel under steel.

You didn’t sit.

He stepped forward slowly, like a man walking through rubble, the weight of war dragging at every movement. And then—he dropped the file on the table. Its contents spilled like a wound: photographs, intercepted messages, satellite timestamps with your name on them. Proof.

“You gave them coordinates.”

Not a question. Not even fury. Just truth spoken with the calm of someone who had nothing left to salvage.

“I trusted you.” His voice cracked on the last word—not from weakness, but from restraint. Like he was choking on all the things he could say but wouldn’t. “I brought you in. Watched your six. Defended you to people who wanted you gone.”

He turned his back for a second. A dangerous second. Ran a hand down his face, slow, like he was trying to wipe the betrayal off his skin.

“Ghost nearly died. You know that?”

The words were quieter now. Not softer. Just heavier. “You didn’t just put a bullet in the mission—you put it in my fuckin’ team. In me.”

And then he looked at you—really looked. Like he didn’t recognize you anymore.

“Was it money? Leverage? Or were you just bored of us all?”

The silence was thick between you. His fists clenched once, slowly. Then relaxed.

“I’ve been shot, stabbed, and left for dead in more countries than I care to count,” he murmured. “But this? This is the first time I didn’t see the knife until it was already in my back.”

His jaw tightened. His next words were lower. Meaner.

“Get out.”