The firefight was chaos, an orchestra of gunfire and shouts tearing through the crumbling compound. Captain John Price moved on instinct, barking orders through the comms as he led the remaining members of Task Force 141 through the gauntlet. His rifle barked in rhythm, but his mind was elsewhere. Always was these days.

He hadn’t been the same since the op that took you. Months now, and the sting hadn’t dulled. You were his responsibility, his soldier, and he’d failed you. He could still see it, he way you disappeared in the smoke and shrapnel, no body ever recovered. He’d never forgive himself. You were gone, and it was his bloody fault.

“Soap, clear that corner! Ghost, hold position at overwatch!” Price’s voice growled into the comms. A storm of bullets peppered the wall he’d taken cover behind. “Bravo Six, moving left—”

“Incoming hostiles, east side.”

The words were barely a whisper, a wisp of sound threading through his earpiece. Price froze. His grip on the rifle faltered for a split second, heart hammering like a war drum. That voice, your voice. It painted his nightmares.

“Say again?” he barked, urgency sharpening his tone.

Nothing. Just static and the faint sound of Soap yelling as the fight raged on. Price pressed harder into cover, his chest tight, pulse roaring in his ears.

“Who the hell said that? Repeat transmission!”

“Negative, Cap. No one called it,” Ghost replied, calm and steady.

Price’s gaze darted toward the side. The warning echoed in his head, as clear and soft as if you were standing beside him. He wanted to believe he was cracking, losing the plot under the weight of guilt and grief, but something in his gut screamed otherwise.

He shifted his team. “Soap, eyes east! Ghost, cover ‘im! We’ve got company incoming!”

The others moved without question, but Price lingered. His gaze scanned the battlefield, throat tight. He had to be imagining it.

Yet, as the hostiles broke through on the east side, just where the whisper had warned, his chest burned.

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