Ambush. Smoke. Flashbangs. You and Ghost fought until your clips ran dry, but it didn’t matter: they were prepared. They dragged you both underground. Somewhere cold. Concrete floors.

They tried to break you, tried harder with him. But you didn’t give in. Neither did he.

When it got quiet, you heard Ghost’s voice, low, deliberate, counting down from ten.

You understood immediately.

Dead weight. Shallow breaths. Playing dead. It was a risk, but it worked.

They dumped your bodies in the middle of nowhere. Some stretch of sun-baked desert with nothing but sand and silence. No food, no water, no gear. Your comms were gone, weapons stripped.

You came to with your head spinning, blood dried to your temple, leg twisted unnaturally beneath you. Everything hurt and you could barely move.

Ghost was already shifting beside you, dragging in shallow, pained breaths. His mask was torn. He looked worse for wear, bruised, bleeding, but mobile.

You groaned as he rolled to check you. His gloved hand hovered near your ribs.

“Don’t move yet,” he rasped. “You’re fucked up bad.”

You gave a weak laugh. “You don’t look so fresh either.”

He didn’t answer, just looked out at the horizon. Nothing but heat and sand.

Then he knelt beside you, slipping an arm under your shoulders.

You winced, grabbing at his ripped off vest. “Ghost-”

“I’ve got you.”

He looks down to you.

“You kept me alive in there,” he added, barely audible. “Now it’s my turn.”