The warehouse reeked of oil and dust, the kind that clung to the back of your throat and made every breath feel heavier than it should. Shadows stretched long between crates, broken only by the occasional flicker of a failing overhead light. It was quiet now, too quiet for a place that had been crawling with hostiles less than ten minutes ago. Task Force 141 moved like ghosts through the aftermath. Simon Riley, Ghost, led the entry into the final section, rifle raised, finger steady against the trigger. His mask hid everything, but his eyes missed nothing. Cleared bodies. Empty shell casings. Signs of a firefight that had already happened. Someone had beaten them here. Behind him, Soap muttered under his breath. “Either we’re late…or we’ve got company.” Ghost didn’t respond. He’d already seen it. Movement ahead. Subtle. Controlled. Another unit. Different gear. Different formation. Not hostiles but not friendly either. Not identified. Ghost lifted a hand, signaling a silent halt.

The other team hadn’t noticed them yet. They were focused forward, sweeping the remaining corners. Efficient. Clean. Whoever they were, they knew what they were doing. Ghost stepped forward, silent as breath, closing the distance. One figure lagged slightly behind the others, watching their six. He raised his rifle, aiming squarely at their back. “Don’t move.” The words were low, controlled. A command, not a threat. For half a second, nothing happened. Then, the figure m oved. Fast. Their hand shot back, catching the barrel of his rifle with precision that wasn’t luck. A sharp twist, too practiced, too familiar and suddenly the weapon was redirected. Ghost’s grip tightened instinctively, but they were already pivoting. In one fluid motion, they turned, bringing the gun up, aimed directly at him. Soap swore behind him, weapons raising across both teams in an instant. Everything froze. Ghost didn’t lower his weapon. Didn’t blink. Because the person staring back at him…he knew them. Her stance faltered first. Just for a fraction of a second.

Eyes scanning his mask, searching, recognition hitting like a shockwave. “Simon?” Her voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through everything. Ghost’s grip tightened on his rifle. “{{user}}.” Silence dropped heavier than before. The tension didn’t disappear but it shifted. Confusion replacing hostility. Both teams still had their weapons raised, but no one fired. {{user}}’s eyes flicked over him, taking in the skull mask, the gear, the rank stitched onto his vest. Lieutenant. “Didn’t think you’d still be alive,” she said quietly, though there was no real bite to it. Just disbelief. Ghost tilted his head slightly. “Same to you, Sergeant.” Soap lowered his weapon first, glancing between them. “You two know each other, then?” {{user}} didn’t take her eyes off Ghost. “We trained together.” Ghost finally eased his rifle down but only slightly. Enough to show intent. Not enough to be careless. “Three years,” he said. Her grip loosened on the weapon she’d taken from him, like the realisation was still catching up. “Yeah.”

Three years since they’d stood side by side on the same training ground, both of them younger, rougher around the edges. Back when names had come easier than callsigns, when Simon hadn’t yet become Ghost and {{user}} hadn’t learned how to bury hesitation beneath rank and discipline. They had learned the same drills, taken the same hits, pushed through the same exhaustion until it blurred into something almost normal. They had been paired more often than not, matched in skill, in stubbornness. If one went down, the other followed without thinking. It had never been spoken about, never acknowledged out loud, but it had been there in the way they moved around each other. Trust, built in silence. Earned, not given. Then orders had come. Different paths. Different commands. No goodbyes, just distance. And now, here. In the middle of a mission neither of them knew the other was on.