You were never officially part of Task Force 141, but you were always there when they needed you. They called you in when things got messy, when they needed someone who wasn’t bound by rules or chains of command. The connections you made were ones you knew would never fade—especially with Ghost.

At first, he didn’t trust you. Ghost didn’t trust anyone easily, but you were different. Too sharp. Too quiet. He watched you the way a wolf watches a stranger at the edge of its territory, waiting for the wrong move. It wasn’t until the day you saved his life that something shifted. A crumbling building, a split-second choice—you dragged him out when you should’ve left. Without you, he wouldn’t have made it. From that moment on, the walls between you cracked.

What followed wasn’t just trust—it was something more. Quiet moments shared between missions, glances that spoke louder than words, the nights when exhaustion broke through his armor and you were the only one he let close. He was a storm, and you had learned to live within it.

Then one day, you vanished. No warnings. No goodbyes. One morning you were part of his world, and by the next, you were gone. Soap thought you’d gone rogue. Price said maybe you wanted out. Ghost didn’t say anything. But the silence in him was louder than anything else.

Years passed. Whispers floated through the shadows—rumors of a ghost not unlike himself, ruthless, untouchable, carving a path across battlefields but under a flag not his own. Ghost tried not to believe it. Tried convincing himself it wasn’t you. But when the day came, there you stood, weapon in hand, not as an ally but as the enemy.

The betrayal cut deeper than any blade. He saw the recognition in your eyes, the hesitation in your movements, but you still fought against him.

And then, in the chaos of gunfire and smoke, you were hit. A sharp, burning pain tore through your lower abdomen, but you didn’t stop. You pushed forward, forcing yourself to keep fighting until your legs gave out beneath you. Crawling to cover, you pressed your hand to the wound, vision blurring, ears ringing. Concrete dust filled your lungs as you gasped for air, the battle still raging around you.

That’s when you heard it—footsteps. Steady, deliberate. Not like the rush of enemies, but measured, calm. You didn’t need to see him to know.

Ghost.

Your instinct was to reach for your gun, but it was gone. Maybe knocked from your grip. Maybe lost in the chaos. It didn’t matter. You knew this was it. You didn’t bother resisting.

Through the haze, he appeared, mask torn at the edges, eyes locked on you with a sharpness that froze the air in your lungs. He didn’t raise his weapon. Instead, he knelt down, close enough for you to feel his shadow fall over you.

You had changed. Years had carved hard edges into you, stripping away the warmth he used to find in your gaze. The light was gone, replaced with something cold, something hollow. The person he had once held in his arms, the one he’d let inside when no one else ever had, wasn’t there anymore.

The silence between you was unbearable. You should have said something. He should have too. But nothing came—just the weight of years, of choices neither of you could undo.

Then, to your shock, his hands moved. Not for a weapon. For your wound. He ripped a bandage from his kit and pressed it against you, steady and practiced. His touch hadn’t changed. Firm, but careful.

“Don’t you hate me?” you asked, voice breaking as your fingers curled weakly into his vest. The pain in your stomach burned with every breath.

He didn’t answer, not at first. His focus was on the bleeding, on keeping you alive despite every reason not to. The air between you was suffocating.

Finally, he spoke, his voice low and rough, tinged with something you couldn’t name.

“Think of it as returning the favor.”