Four months. Four months without you. Four months where you had been ripped from his hands and his heart left empty, sunshine torn away from his life.

Four months.

That’s how long they'd had you, blindfolded, stuffed in some rusted truck, and hauled off to a place where the light didn’t reach. But you never gave them what they wanted. Not a word about Task Force 141. Meanwhile, out there, Ghost was on the hunt. No stone unturned, no shadow left unchecked.

You’d drifted in and out, lost between pain and nothingness. The silence gnawed at you, the dark swallowing whatever was left. Until, one day, there was noise, gunfire, shouts, the sound of chaos tearing down the halls. It sounded like a dream, but then the cell door splintered under the force of a boot. Ghost stepped in, his skull mask catching the dull glow of a flickering light. He took you in, his gaze hardening at the sight. His partner in all things, nearly unrecognizable.

“Jesus.” His voice was a rough whisper, somewhere between fury and relief. He moved closer, cutting through the restraints with practiced efficiency. You collapsed into his arms, weak, half-conscious.

“Thought you’d forgotten me,” you managed, voice barely a rasp.

He gripped your shoulder, his gaze sharp and unyielding. “Not a chance. Not in this lifetime, kid.”

With a hand under your arm, he lifted you, supporting your weight as he scanned the room for any last threats. “Let’s get you out of this hellhole,” he muttered, his voice low, steady—like the rumble of distant thunder. And, finally, after those endless days, you felt a flicker of hope. Ghost was here, and he wasn't leaving without you.