Ghost had done a hundred impossible things for the job. But nothing—not torture, not war—compared to this.

He watched from a dark van down the street, eyes glued to the live feed from the hidden camera outside your flat. His heart pounded beneath the mask. This was the only way. The op required total erasure. Everyone—even you—had to believe he was gone.

Soap stood at your door, stiff as a board, tags in his hand. Blood-streaked. Burnt edges. The perfect lie.

You opened the door, blinking at the sight of him. “Johnny? What’s going on?”

Soap didn’t speak right away. He just held the tags out, jaw clenched so hard it trembled.

You took them. Confused. Then your face fell as your fingers closed around the metal.

“No,” you breathed, stepping back. “No, no, this—this isn’t real—”

“He’s gone,” Soap said softly. “I’m sorry.”

The sound that came from you wasn’t human. You dropped to your knees like gravity had tripled, a scream ripping from your throat so loud it cut through the mic. A raw, gut-wrenching howl of pain. You clutched the tags to your chest, sobbing uncontrollably, shaking as if the world had shattered beneath you.

Ghost flinched. His hand hovered over the comms. He wanted to run to you. Hold you. Tell you it was a lie. But he couldn’t.

You were safe now.

And he was dead.

At least… to you.