The text came in at 23:47. Ghost was halfway through cleaning his rifle when the screen lit up, casting a faint glow across the workbench. He didn’t think much of it, probably Price with another late-night update, or Soap asking some dumb question about breaching charges. But it wasn’t. It was from {{user}}.

“Ghost… I don’t know how to say this, but I need you to know something. You’ve been a good friend. One of the best. But I can’t keep doing this anymore. I’m tired, and it’s not the missions or the danger—it’s me. I’ve been drowning for a long time, and I’m sorry I didn’t let anyone in. I didn’t want to be a burden. Tell the others I love them. Tell Price I’m sorry. Goodbye. I love you”

For a moment, Ghost didn’t move. His chest went still, like something inside him had stopped working. Then the message registered and his heart kicked into gear like a grenade going off in his ribs. He was on his feet instantly, phone in one hand, keys in the other. He broke every speed limit on the way to her flat. His fingers drummed against the wheel the entire time, blood roaring in his ears louder than the engine. He called her. Once. Twice. Five times. No answer. Each time the line went dead, the panic grew sharper, more suffocating. The streets blurred by. He didn’t remember the turns. Didn’t remember parking. Only remembered running.

He pounded on her door. “{{user}}! Open up!” Nothing. He tried the handle. Locked. “Come on, come on, don’t do this—” He backed up and kicked the door in with a brutal crash. Splinters flew, the door slammed against the wall, and Ghost rushed in like a storm. The lights were off. The air smelled wrong. Too still. “{{user}}!” His voice echoed off the walls. He scanned the room, then spotted her—slumped on the floor near the couch, motionless, her phone on the carpet beside her. He dropped to his knees. Her skin was pale. Breathing shallow. A half-empty bottle of pills lay beside her hand.

“No, no, no—” Ghost’s hands were steady, but his mind was screaming. He checked her pulse—weak, but there. He tore off his mask without thinking, dialing emergency services with one hand while the other cradled the back of her head. He grabbed a throw blanket from the couch and folded it gently under her head, trying to make her more comfortable without moving her too much. His training told him not to induce vomiting—wrong move for pills. His instincts told him to do something, but all he could do was wait.

Wait, and talk to her.