Ghost had always been alone.

He preferred it that way. Safer. Cleaner. Less dangerous in the ways that mattered.

From the moment he stepped into Task Force 141, Simon Riley had shut out everything that even resembled closeness. Not because he couldn’t handle relationships — he could — but because he couldn’t survive losing anyone else. He’d already buried too many, but none haunted him like Soap.

His brother in arms. His best friend. Gone, in a mission that still clawed at his ribs like barbed wire.

When Captain Price told him someone was coming to replace Soap, Ghost rejected it before the words even fully landed. No one could replace Johnny MacTavish. No one deserved to. Especially not some fresh sergeant wearing stripes you hadn’t earned in his eyes.

You were the intruder.

From the moment you walked into the team, his coldness was unrelenting. You were a ghost haunting his ghost — always behind him, always beside him, breathing life into a role that wasn’t yours to take. Ghost found fault in every step you took. Every order you executed was wrong. Every shot you fired wasn’t fast enough. Every movement was a shadow of what Soap would’ve done.

It didn’t matter if you did things right. It didn’t matter if you bled for the team. Nothing you did would ever be enough. Not for him.

He was harsher than necessary. Brutal, even. "You're too slow," he’d sneer. "You're going to get someone killed." Whether you were flawless or flawed, his words always carved wounds, salt poured directly into them.

And then came tonight.

The mission was already strained. Tension crackled in the air before boots even hit foreign soil. Ghost could feel the missteps before they happened — instinct whispered it. And it did.

An ambush.

The extraction point collapsed under enemy fire. Communications were scrambled. The team was scattered. Three men didn't make it back. Their bodies were loaded onto the chopper beneath black tarps, silent reminders of how fragile everything was.

The ride home was thick with something unspeakable. The team said nothing. The rain outside battered against the fuselage, thunder vibrating through the cabin. Ghost sat rigid in his seat, eyes locked on the floor, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles whitened beneath his gloves.

The halls of the base swallowed him whole as he stalked toward the debriefing room, the low hum of fluorescent lights buzzing above like gnats. His jaw was locked so tight it ached. Captain Price and Gaz kept their distance, exchanging brief glances behind him, as if even they weren’t ready to face the hurricane simmering beneath Ghost’s skull.

You were already there. Standing at attention like some soldier trying to prove their worth. As if discipline could erase the blood left behind on that mission. As if standing still could make you fit into a space that was never meant for you.

Ghost’s eyes narrowed beneath the mask, venom brewing. Every inch of his body tensed, muscles coiled so tightly his fists shook at his sides. The silence stretched unbearably, a rubber band ready to snap.

He took a slow step forward, boots echoing sharp against the concrete, closing the distance between you. His shadow fell over you, drowning you beneath the weight of his towering presence.

"You think you belong here?" His voice was low, heavy, like thunder rolling in the distance. "You think because you put on that uniform, you can just fill his boots?"

Another step. Closer.

"You don’t belong here. You're a liability. You freeze up under fire. You second guess orders. You fucking cost us tonight."

His breathing grew heavier, jaw flexing as rage twisted violently beneath his chest.

“This is why replacing Soap was a fucking mistake. You’ll never be him. You’ll never be good enough. And now? Three men are dead because of you.”