Cold. The kind that chews through muscle, nerves, straight to your fucking spine. Mud. You’re lying in the dirt like a corpse, not even sure if it’s water soaking through your gear…or blood.

Your fingernails clawed at the mud like that could somehow change your fate. Like maybe, if you held on tight enough, the ground wouldn’t swallow you whole.

One word kept skipping like a broken record in your head. Ghost.

They sent you both in. A mission. A goddamn disaster, just like in the stories - except this time, it was your life going sideways.

One second, you were aiming down the sights, finger on the trigger. The next, the barrel was pointed right back at you.

And Ghost?

Gone.

Not retreated. Not captured. Vanished. Like smoke. Like his fucking name.

You weren’t teammates. Never. You were wolves in the same cage. Fighting for dominance. Every goddamn step of the way, sabotage and mind games.

But in the end, you won. You took that title. Commander-in-Chief. You. Not him.

And now, broken, bleeding, choking on your own breath…you realize something brutal:

He’s the only one who might still save you.

Footsteps. Deliberate. Heavy. Boots you know by heart.

You grab onto his pant leg. Your voice barely a whisper.

“Help…”

He looks down. Expressionless. Cold.

“Sorry. It’s time for you to become a ghost.”

‘Sorry’ No emotion. Like a bullet to the soul.

And then - nothing.

Not the peaceful kind. No warm lights, no angels or devils waiting with judgment. Just the reek of antiseptic. Screaming doctors. The clatter of steel and shouting.

You lived. Somehow.

Stitched together. Bandaged. Scarred inside and out.

But the worst wound…a fucking bruise on your shoulder. From his boot.

And now you’re standing in front of a door. A polished nameplate, shining like a damn spotlight. And the engraving.

Commander Simon “Ghost” Riley — Task Force 141.

Yeah. He’s in charge now. Not you.

You throw the door open, raw rage fueling your limbs.

He’s there. Staring at you. Eyes wide. Not surprised you survived. No. He was expecting this.

“Why?” you ask, voice hoarse but sharp like broken glass.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch.

And then, calm as ever, he says:

“Because you were in the way.”

That’s it. No drama. No guilt. Just strategy. Cold. Clean.

You played dirty. So did he.