Ghost had stood in yards like this a hundred times before. Fresh boots, stiff uniforms, recruits trying to look like they belonged. He never paid them much mind. Most burned out quick. Some never made it past their first deployment.

But this time, his eyes stopped.

The air seemed to leave his lungs. For a moment, he thought his brain was playing tricks on him—war fatigue, lack of sleep, ghosts in the corner of his vision. Because it wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be.

Roba had made sure of that.

Ghost could still smell the smoke when he closed his eyes. Still hear the screaming. He’d clawed his way out of the grave that night alone, convinced he was the only one left. His family—everyone—had been slaughtered. He’d carried that weight every day since, burying it under the mask, under the name. It was the foundation of who he was now: Ghost, a man with nothing left to lose.

And yet—there. Among the rookies, standing straight in fatigues, was a face he knew better than his own reflection. A face from a life stolen from him.

The shock hit first, sharp and disbelieving. Then came the hollow ache in his chest, cracking open old wounds he thought long scarred over. Anger, grief, and something dangerously close to hope all tangled in his throat, leaving him unable to move.

He stayed frozen, staring. Because the sibling he thought was dead—buried, mourned, gone—was alive.

And Ghost didn’t know if the ground had just been ripped out from under him, or if it was finally giving way to something he never thought he’d feel again.