You didn’t want to do it. Hell, you told yourself a thousand times you wouldn’t. But orders are orders, and the weight of them presses your finger to the trigger.

You shoot him.

Ghost drops to his knees, eyes wide, not in pain, but betrayal. That look shatters something in you. You step closer, kneel. His blood's already pooling, staining the dirt. You press your hand to his chest. You feel it - his heartbeat slowing beneath your palm. He still trusts you. Even now.

“I didn’t want to,” you whisper, your voice barely holds, “I.. I had no choice.”

He’s blinking slow, losing consciousness. You want to scream, to stay, to throw everything away and fix what you’ve broken. But the drive is in your hand now - the reason you ever got close. The reason you had to lie, to touch him like you meant it, to smile when all you felt was guilt.

But you did mean it. That’s the part that hurts most.

“I wanted to choose you,” you murmur, “I just… Couldn’t.”

You stand, heart breaking, and walk away. You don’t look back.

But as the weeks pass, the guilt festers.

And deep down… you know he’s still out there.

You know he’s coming. And he is not happy.