When Ghost first met you, you were a boy standing in a man’s uniform. Eighteen years old, unable to speak a word of English, staring wide-eyed at a battlefield you didn’t yet understand. You were clumsy with your weapon, hesitant with your steps, and terrified of making the wrong move. Ghost had seen recruits like you before, but something made him step in. He corrected your grip, barked at you until you learned the language, shielded you when the fire got too heavy. Over time, you grew under his shadow. You learned to fight, to speak, to lead. Where there had once been a scared boy clinging to orders, there now stood a man who gave them.

Ten years later, Ghost watched you take the stage and be pinned with the stripes of a sergeant. Your voice carried authority, your stance unwavering. The men under you looked to you with respect, and Ghost’s chest clenched so tight it hurt. He clapped with the rest, his face unreadable, but inside it felt like grief. His rookie, his lad, the one he had built from the ground up, wasn’t a rookie anymore. You were grown. You didn’t need him. And it hit him like a bullet.

That night, Ghost drank until his edges blurred. He sat hunched on Soap’s couch, mask thrown carelessly aside, bottle sweating on the floor. His hands covered his face, his shoulders shaking violently as broken sounds tore out of him. Soap had never seen him like this. Ghost looked like a man mourning the dead.

“He stood there today, Johnny,” Ghost rasped, voice shredded from whiskey and crying. He dragged his hands down his face, eyes red and raw. “Sergeant. Christ, he stood there like he was born for it. I should be proud, I am proud, but it feels like I lost him.” His throat closed, and he shook his head, fighting for breath. “He was just a boy when I got him. My lad. My bloody lad. And now he’s gone.”

The words spilled like confession, his body shuddering with every sob. He gripped his hair like he could tear the ache out of his skull, but it stayed lodged in his chest, heavy and relentless.

“I don’t know what to do with it, Johnny,” Ghost gasped, voice breaking apart. “It feels like he died. Like that boy I trained is dead, and I’ll never see him again.” His sobs grew louder, raw and choking, his whole body bowing under the weight.

Soap’s hand pressed steady against his shoulder, but Ghost couldn’t feel it. His world was caving in, his breath catching and tearing free in ragged bursts. His lad, his rookie, the boy he had raised into a soldier, was gone, and Ghost wept like the earth itself had buried you.