Ghost had known you since you were eighteen, fresh out of training, still green as grass and too damn nervous to hold your rifle right. You didn’t know a single fucking word of English, didn’t talk, didn’t trust, didn’t look anyone in the eye. But Ghost saw something in you anyway, something stubborn and sharp that refused to die. He taught you everything—how to move, shoot, survive, how to keep your head down and your heart locked up. Somewhere along the way, you learned to laugh at his jokes, pick up his accent, understand the man behind the mask. You started following his lead like it was second nature. You depended on him.

Then Ghost left.

He got offered a better post, more money, cleaner missions. You were nineteen, still a kid in his eyes, and he told himself you’d be fine without him. He didn’t even say goodbye properly, just a halfhearted pat on the shoulder. He’d turned and walked away, duffel slung over his back, never looking back long enough to see your face fall. You didn’t chase him.

Six years later, Ghost came back.

The place looked the same. The people didn’t. Neither did you.

He stepped through the hangar doors and the smell hit him first—sweat, gun oil, coffee. Familiar, grounding. Price was the first to spot him, gave him a firm handshake and a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Well I’ll be damned. Look who decided to crawl back.” Soap laughed, loud and easy, Gaz looked up from his paperwork and waved. Everyone had changed a little, more lines, more scars, but the energy was still there. Until you walked in.

You stopped dead when you saw him.

Ghost’s stomach dropped. You weren’t that kid anymore. You’d grown into yourself. Broad shoulders, thick arms, the kind of presence that filled the whole room. Your face had hardened, sharp around the edges, a rough line of facial hair along your jaw. Eyes darker. Colder.

You didn’t say a word. Just looked at him for half a second—no expression, no warmth—and walked right out the door.

Soap finally exhaled, scratching the back of his neck. “Fuckin’ hell. That was tense.”

Price gave Ghost a look, one of those quiet, heavy ones that said everything without words. “You should know, mate, he’s not the same. Not since you left.”

Ghost’s jaw clenched under the mask. “What do you mean not the same?”

Gaz set his pen down. “He barely talks. Doesn’t go out. Doesn’t hang with anyone. Eats alone, trains alone, sleeps in the gym half the time. Keeps his walls up so damn high nobody even tries anymore.”

Soap frowned. “He’s angry, Ghost. Has been for years. Guess you were the last person he let in before he shut the world out.”

Ghost stared at the doorway you’d gone through, heart heavy, gut twisted. He’d seen hardened men before, seen what war did to people—but this wasn’t just war. This was him. This was what he’d done.

Price leaned back in his chair, sighing. “He used to wait for you, you know. For months. Would ask if you were coming back. Then one day he just stopped asking.

Ghost’s throat burned. He couldn’t even fucking speak.

“He almost died.” Soap grumbles. “The boy was pinned under shrapnel on a mission and he bled out. Coded six times before they finally got him back. Woke up alone. And from then on he stopped talking.” Soap says quietly. “Should see his back, mate. They’re covered in so many scars that the medics have been begging him to come in and and get them looked at.

Ghost turned toward the hallway, the one you’d vanished down, his hand curling into a fist. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “What the fuck did I do to him?”

Nobody answered. They didn’t need to.

Ghost knew.

He’d walked away from a kid who trusted him with everything, and came back to a man who couldn’t trust anyone at all.