Desperation.

The enemy soldier's gun was trained on Ghost as he scrambled backward across the cold, grimy floor of the abandoned warehouse. His arm throbbed, too injured to fight back, his weapon lying useless meters away. Nowhere to run, no options left.

One wrong move, and a bullet would end it all. The rest of Task Force 141 was scattered, each member locked in their own battle. His fiancée, {{user}}, was nearly a mile away, picking off enemies with surgical precision, her sniper shots echoing faintly like distant thunder. Even now, staring death in the face, he couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride. She was extraordinary. But this? This was where it ended for him.

He met the enemy's cold gaze, the certainty of his death settling like lead in his chest. Then, it happened. Too fast to process. A faint whish—then the enemy soldier's head jerked forward, a single bullet carving a clean path through the skull. The lifeless body crumpled to the floor, mere inches from Ghost.

He exhaled sharply, realizing only then how long he'd been holding his breath. Pressing his comms, he forced out the words, voice laced with both disbelief and relief

"Was that you, love?"