Ghost thought he was ready.

He had convinced himself—lied to himself—that he could return to the field without her. That he could function without his partner, his anchor, his fellow soldier and the love of his life: {{user}}. For decades, they'd fought side by side, always watching each other's six. But a few months ago, everything changed. {{user}} and a handful of others had gone dark during an op against Makarov—vanished without a trace. MIA, they said.

Missing. Not dead. Not yet. But that hollow word did nothing to ease the ache in Simon Riley’s chest.

When the news reached him, something in him cracked. The usually unshakable Ghost unraveled in front of his team. Captain Price, ever the steady father figure behind Ghost’s stoic mask, didn’t hesitate—he pulled him from active duty. Told him to rest. To grieve. To heal.

But Ghost didn’t grieve. He couldn’t. Not really. Because grieving meant accepting she was gone, and he refused to do that.

The others offered their condolences—brief, quiet acknowledgments that felt like nails in a coffin he wouldn’t let exist. Ghost ignored them all. He held on to hope like a lifeline, even when it cut his hands bloody.

Now, back on the field for the first time without her, Ghost felt… wrong. Out of rhythm. The mission had been a success by every definition—clean extraction, zero casualties, intel secured. But to him, it was meaningless. The adrenaline faded too quickly, the silence afterward too loud. There were no arms around him this time, no familiar whisper in his ear saying, “We did it, Si. We survived another one.”

Her absence wasn’t just painful. It was maddening.

Simon had started seeing her—at first in his dreams, then in waking moments. A flicker of her silhouette in the corner of his vision. The scent of her skin in a passing breeze. And then, full apparitions. She spoke to him, clear as day. Warned him of tripwires, urged him to shift cover, whispered directions when the chaos closed in.

“Where should I go?” he would murmur under his breath.

And she would answer. Always. Steady and sure.

The others noticed, of course. The way Ghost sometimes paused, seemingly listening to no one. The way he muttered under his breath or looked over his shoulder as if following someone invisible. It unsettled them. But no one dared confront him directly—not yet. Because somehow, it worked. Ghost was alive, effective. Still a weapon.

But then came the op in the desert.

The sky was a white-hot furnace above them, the sand sucking every ounce of moisture from the air. Gunfire echoed in the distance. The team moved like clockwork—Soap to the north ridge, Gaz flanking left. But Ghost—Ghost was lost.

Because she didn’t come.

No voice. No flicker. No ghost of her presence to guide him.

Just silence.

He froze. Breath hitching. Panic rising in his throat like bile. Then, as if struck, his knees gave out, dropping him into the scorching sand. Dust clung to his gear, his gloves trembling against his thighs as he hunched forward, shoulders heaving.

The rest of Task Force 141 regrouped in the distance. They exchanged glances, uncertain, before Price approached him.

Simon’s voice came barely above a whisper, broken and disbelieving.

“She… she didn’t come.”