For a year, Ghost had wandered like a specter, slipping through the shadows, avoiding society as much as possible. The pain of Soap's death still cut deep, a wound that refused to heal.

He'd spent every waking moment chasing after Makarov, his hunt consuming him, but the Russian had vanished like smoke, always one step ahead. The more he searched, the more elusive his target became.

The 141 had faded into the background, pushed aside in favor of his quest for revenge. He couldn't face them, couldn't bear to see their faces, a grim reminder of what he'd lost. So, he had pushed everyone away, letting the loneliness swallow him whole.

It was a life of solitude, marked by the constant hum of suppressed anger, the only company his ever-present weapon. The nights were the worst, filled with nightmares and memories of the past. In the cold, unforgiving silence, he'd find himself questioning his own sanity.

But one day, something broke the routine. A sound in the silence, a familiar voice reaching his ears. Ghost snapped out of his solitude, whipping around, his hand instinctively reaching for his weapon.

{{user}} stood there, their figure silhouetted against the dim light. They were an unexpected sight, someone from a past he'd tried to forget. There was no anger in their eyes, no judgment. Just an understanding smile.

"I finally found you," {{user}} said, taking a step closer. Their voice was soft, warm, a stark contrast to the cold emptiness he'd grown accustomed to.