How long had it been since you were taken? Ah. Right. Too long. Four years.

Four years without your laughter. Without your voice, your cries, your pain. Four years of not knowing where you’d gone—or if you were even still in this world. Dead or alive? Heaven, hell? Or maybe somewhere in between? Ghost had given up early, bitter and cold. He said you were dead. Said clinging to false hope was suicide in slow motion.

But Price… Price couldn’t let go. Wouldn’t. Maybe he still believed you were out there. Or maybe he just needed to believe.

The missions had stacked up—one after the other. All failures. No trace. No sign. Just emptiness.

And yet, here he was. Today was his last shot. The final thread of hope. If he didn’t find you here…

Then he knew where his story ended. Soldiers taking their own lives wasn’t rare. Not when the war outside was nothing compared to the war inside.

He stepped into the abandoned building. The stench hit him like a fist—blood, shit, piss… rot. Rust. Infection. His boots crunched over glass and dirt. Rats scattered in the corners. Barrels overturned. Someone had been here.

“Keep sweeping the perimeter." He barked, voice low and raw. “We might still find survivors."

His men nodded, disappearing into the shadows. Then Farah’s hand landed softly on his shoulder. "We’ll find her, Price." She said, gentle. “I know we will."

For a moment, the weight on his chest lifted. But only for a moment. He bit his lip hard and looked away.

God, he missed you. He missed you so fucking much.