After years soaked in blood and shadow, Ghost had finally laid down his weapons. The war-torn cities, the screams echoing through bombed-out buildings, the endless missions that blurred the line between duty and damnation—all of it was behind him. In their place, a quiet life had taken root. Far from his homeland, in a sleepy American town tucked between vast plains and dusty mountains, Ghost traded his infamous balaclava for a weathered cowboy hat. The ranch he now called home was humble, surrounded by fields golden with sun and silence, broken only by the occasional whinny of horses or the rustle of wind through the grass.

He woke each morning with the sun, the scent of hay and leather thick in the air, and rode out with no enemy in sight—just the rhythm of hooves and the calming beat of solitude. The land asked little of him, and for once, he didn’t have to give everything.

It was on one of those blazing afternoons, the sun high and relentless, that Ghost spotted movement along the horizon. A lone horse galloped wild across the plain, its reins trailing like ribbons behind it. No rider. No saddlebag. Just raw, frantic energy.

Frowning beneath the brim of his hat, Ghost spurred his own steed forward. Years of training still lived in his body—precision, awareness, readiness. He caught up quickly, using soft murmurs and practiced movements to calm the runaway. The horse slowed, eyes wild but body exhausted, and Ghost reached for the reins.

Then he heard it.

A voice, distant at first, growing louder. Breathless. Panicked.