Soulmates had become a spectacle. Everywhere Ghost went, someone was bragging about the ink blooming on their skin grocery lists, dumb doodles, heartfelt confessions appearing across wrists like magic. Soldiers compared marks like medals. Civilians wept on the news about finding "the one."

Ghost didn’t give a damn.

He had stopped responding years ago. Back when he enlisted before the mask, before the blood, he made a choice. His soulmate deserved a life untouched by the shadows he walked in. So he ignored the writing. He scrubbed away the doodles. He refused to drag an innocent person into his hell.

He never expected them to keep trying.

"Oi. Earth to Ghost."

Soap’s voice cut through the noise of the mess hall, a hand waving in front of Ghost’s face. Ghost swatted it away without looking up from his tea.

"No," he answered flatly.

Soap huffed, leaning his hip against the table. "Wasn’t askin’ a yes or no, Lt. I’m tellin’ you to look at your hand. Your soulmate is feeling… creative again."

Reluctantly, with a heavy sigh, Ghost glanced down at his left hand.

His jaw tightened.

It was crude. It was juvenile. It was drawn in heavy, shaky black ballpoint ink right on the back of his hand. It wasn't a "blob" the geometry was undeniable. A long, wobbly oval standing tall between two uneven circles at the base.

He scrubbed at it violently with his thumb, his ears burning hot behind the mask, but the phantom ink wouldn't smudge.

"Is that a rocket ship, Simon?" Soap asked, his voice trembling with suppressed laughter. "Or perhaps a very excited mushroom?"

"Soap," Ghost warned, his voice a low growl. "Drop it."

"I'm just saying, the artistry is—"

The door to the common room swung open, cutting Soap off. Boots squeaked on the linoleum, followed by the rustle of grocery bags. A familiar voice called out, apologizing for the cold draft.

{{user}}. Back from the supply run.

Soap brightened immediately. "Hey, {{user}}! Perfect timing. Come settle a debate. You’ve got to tell me what this looks like before Ghost dips his hand in acid to hide it."

Ghost didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He just sat there, emanating menace, hand curled into a tight fist to hide the offensive scribble.

"Don't bother them, MacTavish," Ghost grunted.

"Nonsense!" Soap laughed, stepping over to help {{user}} with the bags. He reached out to grab a crate of supplies from {{user}}’s grip, but he froze.

Soap blinked. He looked at {{user}}’s hand. Then back at Ghost’s fist. Then back to {{user}}.

"No way," Soap whispered, a grin splitting his face. "That is wild. {{user}}, why have you got the exact same… statue… drawn on your hand?"

There was a beat.

Just one second.

But Ghost felt every fraction of it. The air in the room seemed to vanish.

Soap didn’t connect the dots. To him, it was just a funny coincidence.

But Ghost knew.

His heartbeat slammed against his ribs, loud enough to drown out the room. His gaze lifted slowly, dragging up from the crude, unmistakable drawing on {{user}}’s hand to their face. He locked onto the eyes he had refused to acknowledge for years. The eyes he would’ve protected without ever meeting.

The eyes that were now looking back at him, wide with sudden realization.

Ghost didn’t know what they would say. He didn’t know how to explain the silence of a decade. He only knew that the quiet life he’d tried to give them was over.