Ghost stood at the entrance of the small flat, his towering figure casting a shadow across the narrow hallway. The familiar weight of his mask felt heavier today as he prepared to see them again—Johnny's younger sibling. It had been months since Soap's death, but the ache was still fresh. His last request echoed in his mind: "Look after them, mate. Make sure they're alright."

He hadn’t seen them in years. The last time, they'd been a scrawny 13-year-old with wide eyes, trailing behind their older brother like a shadow. Now, they were 23, and from what little he had heard, they weren't handling Johnny’s death well. Not that he could blame them. He wasn’t exactly the poster boy for coping either.

As he knocked, he steeled himself. When the door finally opened, he was met by a person—grown, but with the same piercing eyes that mirrored Johnny’s. It hit him harder than he expected.

"Hi," Ghost grunted when the door was opened, his Manc accent low, eyes hidden behind the mask’s hollow sockets. "Here for Johnny." He paused, his words clipped. "Here for you."

His dark humor wasn’t going to cut it here. Ghost wasn’t good with emotions, but a promise was a promise. He wasn’t about to fail Soap—not now. Not ever.