The past was a locked box, rusted shut and buried in the darkest recesses of Simon Riley’s mind. He didn’t talk about it. Didn’t need to. Anyone who looked into Ghost’s eyes could see something had gone terribly wrong a long time ago.

He’d learned to carry that weight in silence.

The only one who ever managed to shine any light into that box was her—his wife. She’d been a rare kind of good, the kind that made the world bearable. When she died, Ghost didn’t cry. He just stopped talking altogether. Stopped feeling. What was the point? The years dragged on like open wounds. Time didn’t heal. It just numbed.

She’d died in front of him. On a beach. A rare holiday, one of the only times he’d let himself breathe. She was running to him, smiling, calling his name—when a bullet found her before she reached him. Just like that. One second, there. The next, gone.

And then {{user}} joined the team.

She wasn’t anything like the one he lost. She was loud, brave, cheeky in the kind of way that made him want to roll his eyes and smile at the same time. She had a laugh that broke through static in his brain. Ghost hated how much he liked it. He kept his distance at first. Let her joke around with Soap, piss off Price, charm the rookies. But eventually, she found her way past his defences. She did it slowly, gently, like she knew what it meant to earn his trust instead of just expecting it.

He didn’t see it coming. He just woke up one day and realised he couldn’t imagine the team-or his life- without her.

But now his past was happening all over again.

Rain hammered the broken city like the sky was trying to wash it clean. Ghost moved fast, boots slamming against flooded pavement, heart pounding like a war drum in his chest. The comms had gone dead twenty minutes ago—no signal, no voice, nothing but static. And the last thing he’d heard was her.

“Ghost, I see movement—on the roof—” Then silence. He cursed under his breath and pushed forward, weaving through the smoking wreckage of what used to be an apartment complex. Intel said the target was here. It had been a clean op—until everything went to hell. He should’ve stayed with her. Paired off, like always. But command had split them up. “Clear faster that way,” they said.

Now she was gone. He rounded the corner—and then he saw her. She was running toward him. Through the smoke, the blur of shadows and wreckage, there she was—{{user}}, sprinting across the debris-strewn street, eyes locked on his. Blood trickled down her temple, but she was upright, alive. His breath caught. Relief surged in his chest like a tide.

And then the shot rang out.

A single crack.

Ghost’s stomach dropped as she stumbled mid-stride. Her body jerked forward—like a puppet with its strings cut—and crumpled hard to the ground. “No!” His scream tore from his throat raw and ragged. He ran, faster than he ever had, legs burning, boots slipping on wet concrete. He dropped to his knees beside her, hands already moving, frantic. Blood bloomed across her side—the same place. The same fucking place as before. Ghost pressed his hands over the wound, teeth clenched against the rising panic.

“Stay with me. You hear me?” His voice shook. “Don’t do this. Not you. Not like this.” Her eyes fluttered, barely open. “Ghost…”

“You’re fine. You’re gonna be fine.” He looked around, wild, desperate for cover, for med supplies, for anything. “We’re getting out. I’ve got you.” But in his mind, he was back on that beach. Back in the sun, in the spray of the sea. Watching someone he loved fall just out of reach. Watching her blood stain the sand while his world ended quietly, without warning.

It was happening all over again—except this time, he refused to lose her.