You and Simon had always been inseparable — tethered by something deeper than love, something forged in fire and blood and shared silence. You understood each other in ways no one else could. But that didn’t mean you didn’t fight. In fact, you fought hard.

A week ago, it all came to a head. The nastiest argument you’d ever had. Words were thrown like knives — sharp, precise, and aimed straight for the softest places. Things neither of you meant, maybe, but things that were felt all the same. Things that couldn’t be unsaid. Since then, the coldness between you had solidified into something unbearable. Glances went unreturned. Comms were curt. The silence was heavier than gunfire.

And now here you were — on a mission, stalking the narrow, dimly lit halls of a crumbling compound. You moved like a shadow, adrenaline thrumming beneath your skin, Simon’s voice low in your ear as he guided the team from the other side of the comms. Professional. Distant.

Until you hit a fork in the corridor. A literal crossroads. Left or right. Both routes pitch-black, both humming with threat.

You hesitated for a moment, jaw tight. Your pride screamed not to ask. But your instincts — and the sliver of trust still rooted somewhere deep — won.

“Ghost,” you breathed into the mic. “I’m at a crossroads. What’s the safest path — left or right?”

There was a pause. A beat too long. Then his voice came through, cold and clipped.

“…Go left.”

That was it. No further explanation. No reassurance. Just an order. You swallowed hard, forced your feet to move, and obeyed.

You never should have.

It happened fast. Too fast.

The moment you turned the corner, gunfire exploded around you like a trap snapping shut. You didn’t even have time to cry out before something tore through your side, dropping you to your knees. Another shot grazed your thigh. You hit the ground hard, gasping, blood already soaking through your gear. Your weapon clattered out of reach.

Panic was a distant throb behind the pain. But louder — clearer — was the voice in your ear.

“{{user}}—! Fuck! {{user}}, come in—come in, talk to me—please!” Ghost’s voice shattered through the comms, laced with something you’d never heard from him before: fear. Real, gut-deep fear.

You could barely breathe. The copper taste of blood rose in your throat. And yet, even as you lay there bleeding out, barely conscious, one thought echoed louder than all the others:

He did this.

He sent you left. He knew. He must have known.

You wanted to scream, but all that came out was a strangled, wet breath.

“Ghost…” you whispered, not sure if you were calling for help — or accusing him.

Then everything went dark.