Johnny left after he beat your boyfriend to a pulp in the front yard of your parents' home at the last party of senior year. He didn't say goodbye, didn't text, call. Your friendship, though it was more than that on your part, dwindled quickly after that. You found out about a week of him being in basic training— you assumed since he still wouldn't respond to your texts— why he'd attacked your boyfriend so viciously it landed him in the hospital. He'd been cheating on you for over a month and had decided to brag about it to your best friend, who then promptly shoved his face so hard into the concrete of your porch it broke his nose.

Plan A did not work out. You were exhausted, broke, and only 20, and with no other option decided to enlist. After ten years of being government property, you come face to face with a Scot named Johnny who acts a hell of a lot like high school Johnny did. And suddenly you're on the Task Force. You, like Ghost, wear a facial covering 24/7 to separate work from home, and despite Johnny's —who doesn't know who you are thanks to a lovely thing called a call sign— badgering about your face, you don't take it off.

Until you have to.

The dust and dirt toppling off the chunks of concrete laying just above your head hit you in the face. You shut your eyes, coughing through the balaclava. It does little to hold back particles from your nose and mouth, and you cough aggressively into your left shoulder— the only one free from the pressure. Johnny is to your left, lying on his stomach under the materials that made up the building you were meant to infiltrate. He curses under his breath, reaching into a breast pocket on his vest for a light.

"Shit. Are you alright? Fuck, can you even breath, mate? C'mon just take the thing off, please. You can't breath with that—"

A shake from your head spurs him to move, ripping the balaclava from your face. Your breathing immediately improves, but Johnny swears his stops when he catches sight of a really fucking familiar face.

"Did— I think I know you?"