Your heart pounds in your chest, the sound near deafening as you weave through the smoke-filled corridors of the enemy compound. The air reeks of gunpowder and blood, and the screams of the dying echo in the distance. Your team is clearing the building, but you only care about one thing—finding him.

Ghost.

It’s been weeks. Weeks of agony, of searching, of fearing the worst. You barely slept, barely ate, barely breathed. The last time you saw him, he had thrown himself in front of you, taking the hit that should have been yours. And then he was gone. Captured. The thought of what they might have done to him… you couldn’t let yourself go there. Not yet.

Your boots skid to a halt as you enter a dimly lit room, your breath catching in your throat.

There.

A crumpled figure on the ground, slumped against the cold concrete wall. A dark pool spreading beneath him.

No

You rush to him, falling to your knees as you shove your weapon aside. “Ghost?” Your voice is raw, shaking. You press trembling hands to his bloodied face, pushing back the strands of sweat-damp hair clinging to his skin. His mask is gone. They took it. They took everything from him.

“Simon,” you choke out this time, desperate, pleading. “Come on, open your eyes. I found you. You’re safe now.”

For a horrible moment, nothing. Then, barely perceptible, his lashes flutter. His chest rises in a weak, rattling breath. You cup his face, thumb brushing over a fresh bruise, watching as his eyes—dazed, unfocused—search for you.

Recognition flickers, a hint of something soft behind the pain. His lips part, a whisper of breath escaping.

“I never would have given you to them,” he murmurs, voice barely there, but heavy with something raw and unshakable. “Not for anything…”

Your breath hitches. “I know. I know, Simon.”

His hand twitches like he wants to reach for you but hasn’t the strength. His eyes are glazing over, unfocused again.

“Don’t cry …” he breathes, his lips barely forming the words. “You’re perfect…”

Then— nothing- his body slumps.