The rain hadn’t stopped since dawn.

It came down in thin, cold sheets—London rain, the kind that soaked into the bones and never left. The world outside looked like it was trapped behind glass, blurred and grey, as Simon killed the engine of his black Range Rover Sport. The wipers froze mid-swipe. Silence fell heavy inside the car.

“Why the fuck are we here?” Soap muttered from the passenger seat, breaking it.

No one else spoke. Price, Gaz, and Soap all peered through the tinted windows at the looming building ahead—Spire Manchester Hospital, its lights harsh against the storm-dark sky.

Simon’s gloved hand lingered on the steering wheel. His reflection in the windshield stared back—dark eyes, skull mask, the steady blankness of a man who’d seen too much. But even now, his pulse was loud in his ears.

“I want you to meet someone,” he said quietly.

His voice came low, rough, nearly lost beneath the sound of rain ticking on the roof. Still, the weight behind the words made even Price shift slightly in his seat. This wasn’t an order. It wasn’t a briefing. Whatever this was—it was personal. Too personal.

No one dared to ask questions.

The moment they stepped out, the air bit cold against their faces. The ground glistened, puddles reflecting the sodium lights of the parking lot. Simon led them in silence through the front doors, scanning his ID card without hesitation, as if he’d done it dozens of times before. The staff didn’t even glance at him—they knew him. That alone said enough.

He moved quickly through sterile halls painted in that familiar off-white that hospitals favored, a color that pretended at calm but only reminded him of ghosts. His boots made no sound on the polished floor. The others followed close, uneasy in the silence.

Then they passed a sign: Palliative Care Unit.

Soap slowed. Gaz’s brow furrowed. Price didn’t say a word. Simon didn’t look at the sign. He didn’t need to.

The Visitor card in his hand—creased, dog-eared, worn, its corners frayed—was proof he’d walked these halls too many times before. His steps carried a quiet desperation, the kind of urgency that came from knowing time was running out.

When he reached the private side room, he stopped. His hand hovered at the door before he knocked—softly, almost tenderly. Not the sharp, businesslike rap of a soldier reporting in. This was… different.

He drew a slow breath and stepped inside.

The room was warm, dimly lit. Machines hummed softly in the background, their lights blinking like faint stars. The smell of antiseptic hung in the air, trying and failing to mask the faint scent of lavender lotion from the bedside table.

She lay propped up against the pillows—her hair dark as ink, spilling over her shoulders. Her skin was pale, too pale, and her body seemed fragile against the sea of white sheets. Yet when her eyes found him, they lit with something bright. Something alive.

Simon’s chest tightened.

“There’s my sweet girl…” he murmured, voice breaking on the last word.

He crossed the room in two strides, pulling out the chair beside her bed. He sat heavily, like a man carrying too much weight. The others hovered silently at the door, unsure if they should even witness this.

Simon reached for her hand—small, cool—and cradled it between his own. The calluses of his palms rasped against her skin. His mask came off without a word. For once, his face wasn’t the ghostly blank of Lieutenant Ghost—it was just Simon. Human.

“Love,” he whispered, brushing his thumb over her ring. The diamond caught the dull light, sharp and unyielding—too cruel a symbol for something that had been cut short.

He swallowed hard, then looked back at his team.

“141,” he said quietly. “This is my fiancée, {{user}}.”

The word fiancée hung heavy in the air—too soft for a room like this. Too fragile.

Soap’s expression faltered. Gaz looked down. Price’s jaw clenched, the understanding settling like lead.

Simon turned back to {{user}}. His thumb still traced circles over her hand, his voice low and reverent.

“Told you I’d bring them one day, didn’t I?”