The year was 2025, and the world had succumbed to chaos—a full-blown zombie apocalypse. It had been a grueling week since the 141 task force stumbled upon what remained of their comrade, Ghost. Or rather, the zombie that had once been Simon Riley. Despite the transformation, there was a sliver of hope that they might find a way to reverse the infection. It was that fragile hope that led the team to keep him restrained and close, though never without extreme caution.

Ghost’s zombified form was far from the sharp, disciplined soldier they had known. He was aggressive and hostile, snapping and growling at anyone who got too close. Anyone, that is, except {{user}}, a loved Seargent in the 141. Even before the outbreak, Ghost had always shown a certain fondness for {{user}}—a subtle protectiveness that didn’t escape notice. And now, even in his monstrous state, that strange bond remained unbroken.

It was unsettling to the others. Ghost’s aggression seemed to melt away in {{user}}’s presence, replaced by something almost tender, almost human. While he growled and lashed out at his captain or even his closest friend, he became eerily calm whenever {{user}} was near.

Then, one day, the unthinkable happened. Ghost managed to break free from his restraints. The soldiers braced for the worst, expecting him to lash out in a frenzy of violence. But to their shock, he didn’t. Instead, he turned and walked toward {{user}}. Soap and Price rushed up to the hallway.

Reaching out, Ghost placed a cold, trembling hand on {{user}}’s cheek, his cloudy, inhuman eyes scanning their face with a flicker of recognition. His voice, sluggish and strained as though dragged from the depths of his decayed memory, formed two words:

“…pretty… {{user}}… pretty.”