There were only a few people in the world who had ever seen Ghost without the mask. {{user}} was one of them. Soap was the other. But it wasn’t about the physical cloth, it was never about that. It was about who he was when they looked at him. {{user}}, with her quiet touch, sharp tongue and unwavering gaze, made him feel like a man worth loving. And Soap, he made him feel like someone worth knowing. Like he could belong in this fucked up world and still laugh.

Together, they had formed something unshakable. A triangle of trust forged in bullets, in nights spent staring at the ceiling after missions went wrong, in cigarettes shared on rooftops. Soap was his best friend. Not in the way people throw the term around like a greeting, but in the way that meant everything. And {{user}}. God, {{user}}. She was his tether, the only person who could look into the wreckage of Simon Riley and still reach for him. Together, they made him human again. So when the breach was clean, when the mission was going smoother than it had any right to, when they had Makarov cornered in that godforsaken warehouse and the tension finally started to lift from his chest, he should’ve known. Peace was never meant to be theirs.

There was no warning. No time to shout. No time to step in front of him. Just the sharp crack of a gun fired and Johnny’s head snapped back as the bullet tore clean through. Silence followed, heavy, surreal, as if time itself paused to make room for devastation. One second Soap was upright, vibrant, smirking like he had a one liner ready, and the next he dropped like a marionette with its strings severed, blood exploding from the back of his skull and spreading fast across the concrete.

Ghost didn’t remember moving. One instant he was upright, gun raised, eyes locked on Makarov. The next, he was on his knees beside Johnny’s body, gloves slick with blood. He didn’t scream. Didn’t cry. Not yet. He simply reached, with trembling hands that had never once felt as powerless as they did now. He cupped Soap’s ruined head like he could cradle the soul back into it, like gentleness might undo what violence had taken. “Johnny,” he breathed. “No, no, no, Johnny, come on, you’re alright, you’re fine, I’ve got you, mate” And then he broke. He scraped his hands through the thick pool of blood, scrambled the blood back toward his head as if he could piece him back together, as if pushing it back in could reverse the shot. He gathered the pieces like a man trying to fix a broken clock with no tools, no knowledge, only desperation.

“I can fix it,” he rasped. “I can fix it, I just…I need more time. Don’t do this to me, Johnny” Behind him, {{user}} stood frozen. There was no noise in her head. Just the rhythmic rush of blood in her ears and the aching weight in her chest that made it hard to breathe. She moved slowly. Carefully. Like if she rushed him, the moment would collapse even more violently. “Simon,” she whispered, kneeling beside him. He didn’t even look at her. His hands kept moving, scooping more blood, dragging it toward Soap’s broken skull. His mask was streaked with it now. “He’s still warm,” Ghost said hoarsely. “Still here. If I can just…”

“You can’t,” {{user}} whispered, reaching for his wrist. “Simon, he’s gone.” “Don’t say that.” She held his hand tighter, even as he tried to pull away. “Simon, look at me please. He’s gone. That shot, it was instant. You know it was.”

“I can fix it,” he whispered again, but softer now. {{user}} pulled him to her. He didn’t resist. He sagged into her, clutching Soap’s body with one hand and gripping her arm with the other like he’d fall through the floor if she let go. “I was right there,” he murmured against her. “I was right fucking there.”

“I know.” “He was supposed to be safe.”

“I know, love.” He didn’t sob. He just sat in the wreckage of what used to be the only man who had ever made him laugh in the dark, shaking like a storm had passed through him and left nothing in its wake. And {{user}} held him. Held all the broken pieces. Knowing that some of them would never come back.