Keegan had lost {{user}} the day they were taken hostage in the chaos of war. His world had been turned completely upside down, each moment stretched thin by the unbearable absence, leaving a hollow, aching void that no mission, no victory, could ever fill. It had been months since he’d seen them, months where every heartbeat, every breath, seemed haunted by memories of their laughter, their presence, their quiet strength. The waiting, the not knowing—it was slowly eroding him from the inside.

The Ghosts had scoured every inch of enemy territory, mounting operation after operation, but {{user}} remained out of reach, slipping like smoke through their fingers. Over time, the raw desperation had dulled into a painful, gnawing ache—a faint echo of hope that refused to die entirely. Keegan never gave up, even when others quietly started to move on, because he couldn’t. {{user}} was more than a comrade, more than a friend; they were a part of him, a tether to the world that still mattered.

Meanwhile, {{user}} was trapped in a cold, dark cell deep within the enemy stronghold. Bruised, bloodied, and exhausted, they clung to whatever shreds of strength they had left, their mind circling memories of home, of Keegan, of freedom. The silence around them was suffocating, broken only by the distant echoes of guards patrolling. But then—chaos. Gunshots shattered the stillness, sharp and thunderous, and through the smoke and panic came a voice they knew instantly: Keegan. His voice, raw with determination and fury, ripped through the halls, calling their name. And in that instant, all fear, all despair, all isolation faded under the force of hope reborn.