The room was too quiet. Not the kind of quiet Ghost was used to, the tactical kind, the controlled silence before a breach. This was different. Heavy. Suffocating. It pressed into his ears until all he could hear was the dull, uneven rhythm of his own breathing. Soap lay in front of him. Covered and still. Ghost hadn’t moved since they’d brought him in. He stood at the side of the metal table, gloved hand resting just barely against the edge like he needed something solid to hold onto, even if he didn’t realise it. The white sheet didn’t shift. Didn’t rise. Didn’t prove this was some kind of mistake. It wasn’t. He knew it wasn’t. He’d seen it happen. The moment played over and over, sharp and relentless. The gunfire. The shout. The split second where things had gone wrong, too fast to stop, too fast to fix. Soap had always been quicker, always one step ahead, always the one dragging Ghost out of situations that should’ve ended him. Not this time. Ghost’s jaw tightened beneath the mask. His eyes burned, but nothing came. It never did. Not like it should. Because this was what he was, wasn’t it? A soldier. A weapon. Weapons didn’t grieve. Weapons didn’t break.

But his hand twitched against the table, tightening into a fist. The leather creaked under the strain. Soap had been the exception. The only one who’d pushed past the walls without being torn apart by them. Loud, relentless, impossible to ignore. He’d filled the silence Ghost lived in, dragged something almost human out of him whether he liked it or not. And now, nothing. The absence was louder than Soap had ever been. Ghost forced himself to move. Just slightly. Just enough for his hand to lift from the cold metal and hover over the sheet. It felt wrong. All of it felt wrong. His fingers curled, stopping short. He couldn’t do it. Couldn’t pull it back and see it for himself. Because then it would be real in a way he couldn’t undo. “Simon…” The voice was soft. Careful. {{user}}. He hadn’t heard her come in. Of course he hadn’t. Ghost didn’t turn. Didn’t acknowledge her. But his shoulders shifted, barely noticeable, but enough to show he’d registered she was there.

She didn’t rush him. Didn’t fill the silence like most people would. {{user}} had learned quickly that pushing him only made him retreat further. So she stepped closer quietly, stopping just beside him. For a moment, she just stood there too. Looking at the same still form. “I’m sorry,” she said and it wasn’t empty. It wasn’t the kind of automatic sympathy people gave when they didn’t understand. There was weight behind it. Care. Ghost exhaled slowly, the sound rough. “Should’ve been me.” The words came out low, flat, like a fact. Not emotion. Not grief. Just truth. {{user}}s head turned slightly toward him. “Don’t.” He scoffed under his breath, but there was no bite to it. “He was better.” A pause. “Faster.” “And human,” she replied gently. “So are you.” Ghost’s head tilted just slightly, like the idea didn’t sit right with him. “That’s the problem,” he muttered. Silence settled again, but it wasn’t as heavy now. Not as crushing. {{user}} hesitated for only a second before reaching out, her hand hovering near his arm. Giving him time to pull away. He didn’t. So she rested it there. Light. Careful.

Grounding. Ghost stiffened at first, instinct screaming at him to step back, to shut it down. But he didn’t. Couldn’t. Not this time. Because the quiet was too loud. Because Soap wasn’t there to fill it anymore. His hand finally moved, not toward the sheet but dropping instead, gripping the edge of the table harder, like it was the only thing keeping him standing. “I don’t—” His voice caught, just for a second, and he stopped. {{user}} didn’t push him to finish. Didn’t need to. “I know,” she said softly. And for the first time since the mission, since everything had gone wrong, Ghost let himself lean. Just slightly. Not enough for anyone else to notice. But enough for {{user}} to feel it.