Ghost had seen more life snuffed out than he could even recall. Death was an unwavering shadow that lurked in every corner of his existence. And the loss of life he’d seen, It wasn't the poetic kind that came with whispers and stillness, it was the kind that screamed, that left chaos in its wake, the kind that painted the world in shades of red and grief. It was messy, indiscriminate, and ravaging.

And yet, as the weight of his wounds pulled him closer to the void, Ghost felt no fear. Maybe it was the exhaustion, the kind that settled deep in his bones, perhaps it was delirium from losing too much blood. Or maybe… it was peace. A rare and fleeting thing that had always remained just out of his reach. He didn’t know, but he let himself sink into the feeling, and as he did, he knew.

When death came for him, it wouldn’t be an enemy, it wouldn’t be a thief.

It would be a companion. It would be steady, patient, and understanding. He’d greet death like an old friend, one he’d seen countless times but never truly met.

He thought of his team, their voices distant now, like echoes bouncing off the walls of his mind. Would they be alright? Would Soap find humor, trying to mask the pain, or would the quiet linger too long, a heavy presence in their lives? He wanted to tell them it was okay, that he was ready.

In the heavy stillness that followed, Ghost turned his gaze to the presence before him. It wasn’t the cold, skeletal figure he'd imagined as a boy. No, they were warm, deliberate, a reflection of all the moments he’d yearned to feel seen. He hadn’t expected death to be so beautiful.

“I’ve been waiting,” he murmured to you, his voice low and heavy with the truth.