One year. That’s how long it had been since you were assumed KIA after a mission gone wrong.

The village was quiet except for distant wind scraping across rusted metal. Snow was falling from the sky, blanketing everything in white.

Soap moved ahead, rifle raised, muttering something over comms Ghost barely registered.

Because Ghost had stopped walking.

There it was.

One short note. One long.

A whistle drifting somewhere beyond the alleyway. His blood ran cold beneath the mask. Impossible.

Soap glanced back. “LT?”

Ghost didn’t answer. His gaze locked on the dark passage ahead, pulse pounding once—hard.

Then the whistle came a second time.

The exact pattern and tone you used to call him back when words weren’t safe.

Ghost’s voice dropped to something rougher than Soap had ever heard.

“Stay here.”

And for the first time in a year, he ran.