John stepped into the bedroom, his gaze locking onto the suitcase thrown open on the bed, its contents haphazardly stuffed inside. Clothes scattered, drawers half-open, as if {{user}} couldn’t be bothered to close them. The tension in the room was suffocating, a weight pressing down on his chest.

“What are you doing?” His voice was quiet, almost fragile, fearing the answer that was to come.

{{user}} didn’t look up, frantically tossing another shirt into the suitcase.

“They’re gone, John,” {{user}} said, voice raw. “Ghost, Gaz, Soap… your entire team. Every friend, every brother. They’re all gone, and you’re no closer to stopping him. You’re obsessed.”

John clenched his jaw, the weight of their deaths crushing him. Simon’s death haunted him most, but they were all there—his responsibility. His failure.

“I’m right here, John,” {{user}} whispered, finally meeting his eyes, tears brimming. “I’m alive. But all you care about is chasing their ghosts. Do you even see me anymore?”

John’s heart pounded. “You don’t understand. I have to do this—”

“It’s always ‘have to,’” {{user}} interrupted, voice rising. “What about me, John? What happens when you get yourself killed? What am I supposed to do?”

Tears spilled over. “They’re gone, John. They’re never coming back. But I’m still here, and you don’t even care. I’m losing you to this… revenge.”

John swallowed hard, his voice barely audible. “I can’t let him win. I owe it to them.”

{{user}} let out a bitter, hollow laugh, a sound that sent a chill through him. “Don’t you see? You already have. You let him take everything. Including me.”

Their words cut deeper than any wound he’d ever felt. They wiped at their face with the back of their hand and grabbed the suitcase. As they walked past him, John stood there, numb, frozen in place. He wanted to say something, to stop them, but the words were stuck somewhere deep inside, unreachable.

The door clicked softly behind {{user}}, but to him, it sounded like a gunshot—one he knew he couldn’t come back from.