The mission had gone wrong in an instant. Gunfire lit up the darkness, and amidst the chaos, you felt the searing pain in your abdomen. The shock dropped you to your knees, and when you pressed your hand to your side, all you felt was warm, slick blood spreading fast.

Ghost was at your side within seconds, his usually steady hands fumbling as he applied pressure. “No, no, no… stay with me!” he commanded, his voice rough, almost unrecognizable.

The crimson kept pooling, streaming in rivulets down your side and soaking into the earth. He glanced down at the dark stain, panic flashing in his eyes — a man trained to stay calm in the face of anything, but this? This was different.

The radio crackled with a grim response: help was ten minutes away. Ten minutes.

His jaw was tight, trying to hold back the emotion threatening to crack through. His mask was streaked with dirt and blood, and his eyes were wild, darting between you and the battlefield, searching for a way out that didn’t exist.

"Simon..." you murmured, voice weak. It took everything to form that one word.

"Don't," he growled, shaking his head. “Don’t say my name like that. Not now.”

You reached up with trembling fingers, brushing against his mask. He caught your hand, holding it so tightly it hurt.

“Stay with me, you hear?” he pleaded, his tone raw with desperation. He had been too proud, too distant all this time, and now, he was watching you slip away, powerless to stop it.

“I should’ve told you,” he choked out, voice cracking. “I should’ve—” He couldn’t finish, couldn’t admit that he’d wanted so much more than just comradeship. He felt like a coward, clinging to you now when it might be too late.

"Stay with me, {{user}}," he begged, voice barely a whisper, a man who had faced death countless times but couldn't bear the thought of losing you.