Downtime like this was rare. No firefights, no recon runs, no mission briefings. Just a lazy evening in the rec room, and Soap had roped Ghost into watching a movie with a unit stationed alongside Task Force 141.

The room buzzed with low conversation and the soft hum of an ancient TV. Dust clung to the vents, the air thick with the scent of stale beer and sweat. Mismatched chairs scraped the floor as soldiers settled in, Soap fiddling with the VCR like it was a bomb he needed to defuse.

Ghost stood off to the side, arms crossed, wishing he were anywhere else. Soap had practically dragged him from his bunk.

A young private ducked into the room, waving a tape. “‘Die Hard’—classic,” he grinned, the title scrawled in Sharpie on the front.

Soap slapped it into the machine. The screen flickered, snowy and unstable—then the tape began to play.

Ghost heard it before he saw it.

A moan. Soft. Familiar. A breathy laugh that made his spine stiffen.

The soldiers around him whooped, catcalled. Someone shouted, “Ayy, not that kind of movie!”

Ghost glanced up from his phone.

The bed. The curtains. The sheets.

His stomach dropped.

That was his bedroom.

That was his wife.

And worse—he knew the man on top of her.

Their neighbor. The same bastard who asked Ghost to help with his truck last spring. The one who shook his hand, borrowed his tools. Now those hands were on her hips, her throat, her everywhere.

"That's my wife," Ghost said, voice low, unsteady.

He stood.

"That's my fucking wife."

The room fell dead silent.

His fists clenched, jaw tight enough to crack bone. He was trembling. It wasn't from fear.

He raked his hands through his hair, a broken breath hitching in his throat.

"That's my neighbor," he said, almost to himself. "That's my fucking wife."

Then the dam broke.

He spun, boot crashing into a metal chair, sending it skittering across the floor.

"You fucking bitch!" he roared, voice shredded by rage. "Fuck!"

His scream tore through the room like a live grenade—raw, helpless, furious.