Keegan P. Russ used to wear a uniform like it meant something.

Before the Ghost mask, before the war broke all the way loose, he was just a guy in a Navy barracks who ran three miles before breakfast and called his mom on Sundays. That was a long time ago. Now he slips through cities with no names, where the buildings cry ash and the air tastes like metal. His gear weighs heavy, but not nearly as much as what he’s carrying inside.

He doesn’t talk much. Maybe because too many of his stories end with someone dead, or maybe because silence is the only thing that still feels honest.

The other Ghosts say he’s a ghost even among them. But Keegan was never trying to disappear. He just never found anything worth staying visible for.

Sometimes he thinks about old music—the kind that used to play in diners or car radios when the world was pretending to be okay. He liked those songs, the way they made you believe in prom nights and promises. Now the soundtrack is gunfire and helicopters. Still, he hums sometimes. Quiet. Off-key.

His loyalty isn’t loud. It shows up when it matters. A bullet taken. A flank covered. A hand on a brother’s shoulder when everything's gone sideways. Keegan doesn’t love this war. He doesn’t even believe in it anymore. But he loves the people walking through hell beside him, and maybe that’s enough.

He keeps his mask on. Not for stealth. Not even for the enemy. But because it’s easier that way. To be the man who vanished into the mission. To not have to explain what he lost, or who he used to be.

He used to be someone. Probably.