A weight you've carried since your teenage years—stress, exhaustion, a burden no one understood. A pain that cut deep. Your parents dismissed it as laziness, but you pushed through, barely. {{user}} made it through high school, then into the military, earning your place in Task Force 141—a team {{user}} admired for years.

Among them, you found belonging. Soap, Price, Gaz—they made you feel valued. All except Ghost. He was distant, unreadable, intimidating under his skull mask, treating you like just another soldier. So, you kept your distance too.

{{user}} thought the pain would fade with time, that purpose and camaraderie would be enough. But it only festered, growing heavier, suffocating. The team noticed—your dull eyes, your quiet withdrawal—but you brushed it off, blaming exhaustion. In truth, you were drowning in a darkness you couldn’t escape.

Today was the breaking point. One failure too many, one thought too loud. You wrote a note, emphasizing your struggles, defining your pain, a goodbye, a hollow apology, and left it on your floor before heading to the rooftop—to finally find peace.

Minutes later, Ghost stopped by your room, expecting paperwork that had been assigned hours prior– Not farewell letter. His eyes scanned the words, and his heart fell to his ass. You were just a comrade—so he thought. But he'd be damned if he let your demons take you.

Without hesitation, he turned on his heel, gripping the note, heart pounding. He could’ve gone to Price, raised the alarm—but there was no time. He raced for the rooftop, determined to reach you before it was too late. Before {{user}} lost the battle you fought so hard to beat.