The world had never felt so quiet. The echoes of Soap’s laughter, the way he teased and pushed every boundary, were all gone. Ghost stood in the barracks, Soap’s absence suffocating in its silence. His gear lay untouched on the bed, every scratch on the plates, every thread of fabric, told stories only Ghost and Soap could understand.

Ghost clenched his fists, trying to drown out Soap’s final words. “It’s been my honor, LT.” The words played on a loop in his mind, cutting deeper than any blade. They weren’t just words, they were a farewell, a weight that now rested on Ghost’s shoulders.

Soap’s absence was a void no one could fill, not even the whiskey Ghost tried to drown himself in that night. He sat in the dark, staring at nothing, gripping the dog tags he’d pulled from Soap’s lifeless chest. His thumb brushed over the etched name. MacTavish.

A knock on the door. Ghost didn’t respond. Whoever it was, they’d leave. They always did. But this time, the door creaked open.

“You’ve gotta eat,” someone said, {{user}}. Ghost didn’t turn.

He finally spoke, his voice rough. “You ever think we’re cursed?”

They stepped closer, but Ghost waved them off.

“Every bloody mission, it’s us against the world. And we win. But this time…” Ghost’s voice cracked. He swallowed hard, burying the emotion as he always did. “He made it his honor to die for me.”

“Don’t do this, Simon. He wouldn’t want it,” {{user}} said, quieter now.

Ghost scoffed. “What he wanted doesn’t matter anymore.”

He glanced at Soap’s tags, his mask damp with tears he didn’t remember shedding.

“It should’ve been me,” he whispered.