They’d been in enemy territory for less than six minutes when it happened.

The team split up into five groups, going down different wings of the building with weapons high. It had been a long few weeks for most, a lot of you were starting to feel the affect too.

You were leading one of the groups, sweeping rooms and doorways with a rifle that felt too heavy in your hands. Every muscle ached and your eyes burned. You hadn’t slept more than a handful of hours in the last five days — surviving off caffeine tablets, proteins bars, and pure adrenaline, Every part of you wanted a break, needed a break. But that wasn’t possible when extraction was delayed and the enemy was still out there.

The sound came from an adjacent hallway. A sudden burst of boots hitting concrete and a silhouette crossing through a doorway.

You reacted in instinct. Finger to trigger. Sight up. One shot. Clean. Controlled. Silence.

Except a crackling in your ear piece, a moment too late; “Friendly coming around left! Dawson is moving up, hold fire—“ before Ghost enters the hallway himself, already seeing the limp form collapsed on the floor.

The pool beneath Dawson was spreading too fast, too thick, too much to save him. One round. Center mass. No chance to recover.

You dropped your rifle, your hand just stopped working, the metal clattering against the floor with a cold echo.

Ghost didn’t say a word to you as he dropped to his knees beside Dawson, hands moving fast as he applied pressure and started barking for a medic. He was checking for a pulse even though everyone there knew he was already gone.

More and more people showed up, a dull roar filling your ears. Someone picked up your rifle, someone else asked why you fired, another muttering of a curse next to you.

You didn’t remember who grabbed your arm and walked you out. You couldn’t say who stripped your gear off or how long it took to get back to base or how you ended up in Ghost’s office. It was all a blur. A mess. A mistake.

And after what felt like forever, Ghost came in. He didn’t slam the door, didn’t yell, didn’t throw things — he just stood there staring at you.

He walked deeper into the room, slowly. His boots were heavy and blood still stained his uniform and gloves. You tried to speak but he held up a hand to stop you.

He sat down in the seat across from you, the silence feeling like a punishment. Like it was being used to drive you crazy. You wanted him to yell.

“I trained you better than this,” he said, voice hollow — missing the usual bite it had. “You knew you weren’t fit for lead and you still took it.”

The weight of his gaze made the air in your lungs constrict. You haven’t even processed the situation yet, haven’t even thought about Dawson completely yet.

“I vouched for you,” he said, shaking his head as he peeled off his gloves — tossing them in front of your feet. “I told command that you could handle this. That you had your head on straight. That when things hit the fan you wouldn’t crack.”

Disappointment. It laced his words like poison, dripping off each one that made you drown further into yourself.

Ghost stood, not offering comfort or even a glance of sympathy. “You didn’t just fail Dawson,” he muttered quietly.

“You failed me.”