The chaos around the small mountain village was palpable—gunfire crackled in the distance, and Ghost moved through the smoke like a shadow. His heart thudded heavily against his chest plate, but his focus remained razor-sharp. Every hostage extraction was high-stakes, but this mission felt eerily personal. Maybe it was the mountains, or the oppressive quiet between bursts of violence, but something gnawed at him, though he shoved it aside.

It had been a year. A year since he lost you. Since they delivered your wedding ring to his doorstep, cold and final. He hadn’t stopped moving since then, burying himself in missions to numb the ache, to drown out the memories of your smile, your laughter. It never worked. Your ghost followed him everywhere.

“Ghost, we’ve got civilians in the square. Intel suggests they’re using them as human shields,” a voice crackled in his comms.

“Copy,” he replied, his tone steady as ever. But his jaw tightened. Civilians were always the hardest part.

He rounded the corner into the central square. The sight froze him mid-step, though he quickly masked the hesitation. A group of terrified hostages huddled in the middle of the open space, surrounded by armed men. It was routine—another extraction, another calculation of angles, risks, and priorities.

And then he saw it.

You.

Standing in the crowd of hostages, your face pale but unmistakable. Simon almost dropped his weapon.“Bloody hell…” The words slipped out under his breath, a rare crack in his composed demeanor.

It couldn’t be. It shouldn’t be. His brain screamed at him that it was impossible. You were dead. He’d mourned you, buried the memory of your warm touch in favor of a cold grave marked by your ring. And yet, there you were. Breathing. Alive.