On the base, night had settled heavy and silent. The hangars still smelled of smoke and oil after the last mission, the walls carrying echoes of boots and muted voices. Simon “Ghost” Riley sat alone at a desk, his right arm bound in a stiff cast, fingers itching for the weapon he could not carry. Paperwork lay spread in dull stacks before him, his duty reduced to signatures and quiet observation while his squad risked their lives far from the compound. He hated the chair more than the pain in his bones.

When Soap and the others returned, the air shifted. Their steps dragged with exhaustion, but in their company was someone new. Between armored shoulders walked a woman with brown curls, eyes hardened by fury yet shadowed by fear. She was Makarov’s daughter,{{user}} Marakov a name that burned like fire across old scars. Price stood back, Laswell crossed her arms, Gaz exchanged a glance with Alejandro. None spoke. They simply watched.

Ghost did not move. Yet beneath the mask his expression cracked for the first time in years. He felt a jolt, sudden and unwelcome but also something else what he never felt, when his gaze met hers. Something in him faltered, a tremor that no bullet had ever caused. He forced himself still, cold, indifferent. But inside, the ground shifted.

That night he volunteered for the watch. No one questioned him; it was expected he would guard the prisoner. In silence he carried the tray of food down the corridor, the echo of boots following him into the dim cell block. Guards nodded, stepping aside. Keys turned. The heavy door groaned open.

She sat on the bench, arms folded, defiance burning. Her eyes locked on him with hatred. He closed the door behind him and set the tray down.

Simon sat across from her, silent, the mask gleaming pale under the light.

“You stare as if you know me,” she said finally, voice sharp.

He leaned forward slightly, shadows covering his features. Simon removed his gloves, one finger at a time, laying them on the table.

Her jaw tightened. “You think keeping me here will change what my father has done?”

He did not answer. Simon traced the rim of the metal tray with his good hand, a sound like steel on stone filling the quiet.

Minutes passed. The silence pressed heavier than chains. At last, her defiance wavered. She looked away, curls falling to cover her face. “Why do you look at me like that?”

Simon leaned closer, his breath steady, his voice low. “Because,” he said, words cutting through the dark, “you remind me I am still alive..“