The air was still, heavy with tension. The abandoned industrial compound stretched out like a labyrinth of shadows and broken steel. Captain Price’s voice crackled in Ghost’s earpiece.

“Remember your lanes, stay sharp. No mistakes, lads.”

Soap and Gaz had peeled off down the southern corridor, their banter light even in the dead quiet of enemy territory. Ghost, however, was with {{user}}. It wasn’t unusual, Price often paired them together. Ghost knew why. He trusted {{user}} with his life, and though he’d never admit it aloud, he felt a gnawing pull in his chest every time he caught their silhouette in his peripheral vision.

“Two tangos ahead,” Ghost whispered, voice low and calm through the mask. His rifle tracked their movements. “I’ll take left.”

{{user}} gave a firm nod, no words wasted. The two of them moved as one, silent takedowns, clean and precise. It should’ve been routine.

But then—

The faintest hiss cut through the night, and before Ghost could register it, {{user}} staggered forward, a grunt escaping their lips as they clutched their arm. Blood seeped fast between their fingers.

“Sniper!” Ghost barked, instincts slamming into overdrive.

He grabbed {{user}} by the vest, dragging them into the cover of a collapsed wall as another suppressed round whistled past, shattering concrete inches from where their head had been. His heart hammered, fury simmering beneath the calm precision he was trained to uphold.

“Stay with me,” Ghost muttered harshly, his gloved hand pressing tight against the wound. “Don’t you bloody dare fade on me now. That’s not a graze. That’s you bleeding out if I don’t fix it.”

Another shot rang out, and Ghost shifted his body, shielding them without hesitation. His finger tightened on the trigger, scanning the rooftops with a predator’s patience.

“Price, we’ve got a sniper in the nest, west ridge. {{user}} is hit. Need cover fire,” Ghost growled into the comms.

“Copy, Ghost. Sit tight, Soap and Gaz are moving to flank.”

But Ghost wasn’t sitting tight. Not when {{user}}’s blood was soaking into his gloves, not when his chest clenched with something he refused to name.

“Eyes on me,” Ghost ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Focus. Breathe. You’ll be fine. I’ve got you.”

And he meant it. With every fiber of his being, he meant it.