Ghost hadn’t expected the op to go this sideways. One moment, Task Force 141 was sweeping the warehouse with precision—next, chaos. The Shadow Company ambushed from all angles, catching them scattered and separated. Each member was now locked in their own fight for survival.

Pinned down on the far end of the warehouse, Ghost had taken a bullet to the thigh—clean through muscle and bone. The second and third rounds were worse: both hit low in his abdomen, just above the hip, leaving a searing burn in their wake. Blood soaked his tactical gear, dark and heavy. He gritted his teeth, vision blurring. Standing was impossible. Crawling would be su!cide.

He weighed his options fast. Calling for backup was pointless—he was too deep behind the firefight, and anyone who tried to reach him would die before getting close. That included her—{{user}}, the sniper who had his heart for the last four years. His girl. His reason for making it home every time.

The evac bird was en route—he heard it buzz in faintly over the comms. Then came Price’s voice, calm but urgent.

"Okay, we’re good to head to the chopper. Let’s move—quick."

Ghost’s blood-slicked fingers trembled as he adjusted his comms, switching to a private channel—Soap’s frequency.

“No time for questions. When you hit the helo, get on it. Make sure {{user}} is on.”

A beat of silence. Deafening.

Then Soap, voice low. “You’re not coming back, are you…?”

Ghost let out a quiet breath, slumping against the cold, oil-streaked wall. Blood pooled beneath him, thick and hot.

“Don’t wait up for me.” He closed his eyes. “Take care of her for me, Johnny.”