The motel room smelled like dust, rust, and cheap bourbon. {{user}} had the windows blacked out with duct tape and a gun tucked under their pillow. That’s how it had been for years now—drifting from one job to another, no flag, no chain of command, no promises. Just money and the silence that came after the blood.

{{user}} sat on the edge of the bed, cleaning their sidearm like it was a ritual. The news on the TV murmured about a warehouse fire in Croatia. Their work. Sloppy, maybe. They didn’t care anymore. {{user}}'s phone rang. Blocked number. They stared at it like it had no right to ring. Nobody called them. Not anymore. They answered anyway but didn't speak.

“{{user}}.” The voice said causing {{user}} to freeze. That voice was like opening a locked room in their head.

The memories came uninvited. Soap yelling “on your six!”, the gunshot, the crippling silence after only broken by the trains going through the tunnel. {{user}} hadn’t even gone to the funeral. They couldn’t.

“Ghost?” {{user}} asked already knowing it was him but hoping it wasn't.

“It’s me.”

“What do you want?” {{user}} asked, voice flat.

There was a beat of silence before Ghost spoke again. “It’s under the table. Off the book. Not sanctioned. I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t bad.”

{{user}} could feel the weight in those words. Back in the day, Ghost never flinched, not even under fire. For him to sound like this now? It meant someone was bleeding or Ghost was desperate.

“I’m not that person anymore,” {{user}} muttered.

“No, you're not,” Ghost said. “You’re the person who vanished after Soap died.”

“I know,” {{user}} whispered, everything suddenly felt hollow.

“I wouldn’t be calling unless I knew you still gave a damn.” Ghost said in his signature monotone voice.