Ghost sat alone in the dim room, the faint glow of a single lamp casting shadows across the walls. His eyes were fixed on the door, waiting—just like every night before—for any sign of your return. His mask lay on the desk, a reminder of the cold, unflinching soldier he was. But here, in the quiet, a trace of vulnerability showed through.

It had been months since you defected—taken by the enemy, at least, that’s what Ghost chose to believe. Others called you a traitor, but he had seen the fear in your eyes during your last encounter. You hadn’t chosen this. You were forced, manipulated. He was sure of it.

Despite the whispers and Price’s warnings, Ghost never wavered. Every night, he left the lamp on, a silent promise that the door was always open. Price had confronted him about it. “Simon, if she shows up, we prosecute. You’re risking everything.”

“She didn’t choose this,” Ghost had argued. “She’ll come back when she’s ready.”

“And if she doesn’t? What if she’s working for them willingly?”

“She’ll come back. We’ll handle it my way.”

Now, as Ghost sat in the stillness, the soft glow from the base’s front light—another signal—kept hope alive. He didn’t know why he cared so much, why he was willing to risk it all. But you weren’t just another soldier to him. You were different.

A faint knock sounded in the distance. Ghost’s heart quickened, his hand instinctively reaching for the mask. Could it be? Had you finally returned?

He moved toward the door, emotions pushed aside as the soldier in him took over. If tonight wasn’t the night, he’d still be waiting tomorrow. The lamp would stay on. The light outside would keep shining. One day, you’d come home.