The world had already ended once. Cities had fallen silent, swallowed by ash and rot, and the infected had crawled through the ruins like shadows with teeth. Most of them had eventually died—starvation, organ failure, their bodies burning themselves out in ways any doctor could’ve predicted once the cure existed. “Obvious reasons,” the Army called it. Ghost never cared for the clinical phrasing. All he cared about was her.

He’d held onto {{user}} the moment they tried to pull her away. She had once been a legend—steady-eyed, steady-handed. A sniper with a record-breaking long-distance shot they still whispered about around campfires. She’d covered extraction teams from impossible angles, picked off mutated infected at ranges no one else even attempted, and once saved an entire convoy by shooting out a collapsing water tower before it crushed them.

That was before.

Now, her body was thinner, her skin pale where infection scars mapped faintly under the surface. Her eyes—once sharp as scopes’ crosshairs—were milky, tracking the world in glimmers. She spoke in fragments. Single words. Sometimes Ghost could coax out a soft, hesitant phrase when she felt safe enough. She stayed close to him, fingertips always searching for the fabric of his sleeve like she needed the reassurance he was real.

He owed her far more than comfort. She had saved his life in the most literal way possible. They’d both been infected, both spiralling toward that edge where humanity slipped away. But when the cure was offered—only one dose left—she’d shoved it into his hands and forced him to take it. Even half-feral, she’d had enough clarity to choose him over herself.

He wouldn’t leave her. Not then. Not now. Not ever.

So when Private Jenna joined the 141, her disgust hit like a slap. Fresh uniform, fresh nerves, the kind of green that smelled of textbook training instead of blood and smoke.

The evening sky over the Forward Operating Base was the color of old steel—flat, muted, and waiting for rain. The perimeter lights buzzed faintly, casting long shadows across the concrete. Ghost walked the patrol path with steady, heavy steps, the crunch of gravel beneath his boots a low, familiar rhythm. Beside him, {{user}} drifted a half-step behind, her fingers hooked into the back strap of his plate carrier so she wouldn't get lost.

Every few seconds, her fingers tensed against his gear. He reached back occasionally, brushing his knuckles over her wrist in reassurance, checking {{user}} was still there.

The world was quieter since the infected had mostly died off. But quiet didn’t mean safe.

The gate ahead came into view—two recruits stationed there. One of them stiffened the moment she noticed them.

Private Jenna.

Ghost watched her expression curdle the second her gaze landed on {{user}}.

She stepped forward, fingers tightening on her rifle. Her nose wrinkled like she smelled something rotten.

And then she said it. Loud enough for the other recruit to hear. Loud enough to cut through the air like a blade.

“Shouldn’t that be killed?”

Ghost stopped walking.

Very slowly.

A deadly kind of slow. His mask hid his expression, but his eyes—icy, sharp—locked onto her with a weight that made the other recruit instinctively look away.

“What did you just say?” Ghost’s voice was low, gravelly. Dangerous.

Jenna swallowed but didn’t back down. “Sir—respectfully—why is that allowed to walk around? It’s infected. Shouldn’t it be—”

He raised a hand to silence her.

"That's enough, Private. {{user}} is not an it, for one. She is your superior and has achieved much more than you ever will. Secondly, your disrespectful comments will not be tolerated, therefore you'll be on Latrine duty for the rest of the month."

Jenna's disgust at {{user}} shifts to incredulousness, then disbelieving anger like it was {{user}}'s fault.