For weeks, Ghost had gradually distanced himself. From TF141, from you, and drowning whatever's eating away at him in alcohol. One night, as you entered his office to hand him a few documents, you found him slumped over his desk.

His hands trembled as they propped him up, knuckles white from the strain. He looked drawn and weary, and his eyes fixated on the wooden surface. You call out to him once, but he doesn't seem to hear.