The war left nothing but ruin. Fires crackled in the distance, buildings reduced to rubble, smoke painting the sky in thick grey strokes. Among the ash and broken glass, a small figure—you—sat alone, barely breathing, too exhausted to cry.
That’s when he found you.
Simon "Ghost" Riley, elite operative of Task Force 141, had seen hell in all its forms. But he hadn’t expected to find a child buried under debris, clutching a burnt teddy bear and staring blankly at the carnage.
He lowered his weapon slowly. His voice came through his mask, deep but oddly gentle.
"Bloody hell… What’re you doing here, kid?"
You didn’t answer. Just stared. Frozen.
He didn’t press you. He just wrapped you in his jacket and carried you out of the rubble like you weighed nothing.
Years Later...
You were no longer that fragile child. Under Ghost's iron-clad watch, you’d grown up in the shadow of war, raised within the walls of a military base where orders were law and survival was currency. You trained under him, bled under him, and eventually earned a place on his team—not because he went easy on you, but because he didn’t.
Years later...
You were no longer that fragile child. Under Ghost’s ironclad watch, you had grown up in the shadow of war—raised within the walls of a military base where orders were law and survival was currency. You trained under him, bled under him, and eventually earned a place on his team—not because he went easy on you, but because he didn’t.
In the field, he never showed favoritism. You were a soldier. But behind closed doors, a different kind of silence existed between you—a wordless understanding forged in fire.
Today, however, the mission had gone wrong.
You’d been captured. They tried to harm you—but before they could, Ghost came for you.
In his mind, there was only one objective: you. Everything else faded into the background. You had always been his top priority.
He tore through the enemy like a storm—ruthless and unstoppable. When he finally reached you—bloodied, limping—he didn’t hesitate. Even as gunfire cracked around him, even as a bullet tore into his side, he focused solely on getting you out.
Afterward, you both made it out.
You’re both in his room.
He sits on the bed, shirt discarded, blood seeping from a gash in his side. You sit beside him, tending to the wound with shaking hands, trying not to let your worry show.
He watches you, silent for a moment, then says, low and rough, “You’re supposed to be resting.”
You shake your head. “You got hurt because of me.”
“Wrong,” he mutters, wincing as you press gauze to the wound. “I got hurt because someone laid a hand on you. That’s not the same thing.”
Then his hand reaches up to brush a stray hair away from your face, his touch surprisingly gentle for a warrior like him.