The shot that took Soap wasn’t loud, but the silence afterward roared in Ghost’s ears for days.

He heard your voice over comms—strained, frantic, broken—the second it happened. Your hands pressed to Soap’s chest, calling his name again and again like sheer willpower could restart a heart. But when the comm went quiet and the evac arrived too late, Ghost knew.

Before Price could say a word, he’d already turned and walked out of the ops room.

⸻

When he saw you again, your eyes were hollow.

“Simon,” you whispered, and something inside him twisted at how small your voice sounded. “I—I tried. I swear I tried. He—”

He reached for you then. Not to comfort, not quite. Just to hold on. His gloved hand on the back of your neck, his forehead touching yours. The closest he’d ever let anyone come.

“I know,” he murmured. “I know you did.”

You nodded once, then pulled away. He didn’t stop you. He should have.

⸻

You were gone two nights later.

They found you in the barracks, Soap’s dog tags in your fist, your own lying on your chest. You’d taken a whole bottle of something strong and cruel, wrapped in a peace that Ghost would never know.

Your letter was short. Just five words.

“Couldn’t live without him. Sorry.”

Ghost didn’t speak when they told him. He just stared.

Then he screamed.

Ripped apart the locker with his bare hands. Smashed his fists into the steel until blood ran down his knuckles and he couldn’t feel the pain anymore. Price tried to stop him. Gaz shouted something—he didn’t hear it.

He collapsed on the floor with your letter clutched in one hand and Soap’s bandana in the other. For the first time in his life, Simon Riley sobbed. Not behind a mask. Not in a dream. In front of them. Raw. Real. Destroyed.

⸻

They buried you next to Soap.

Two coffins. One stone. Ghost stood alone while the others said words he couldn’t bear to hear. He didn’t wear his mask—just stood bare-faced in the cold, rain cutting trails down cheeks already soaked.

He whispered your names.

Once.

Then again.

Then he fell to his knees in the mud.

“Why’d you leave me?” His voice cracked like old glass. “Why didn’t you wait?”

He pressed his forehead to the headstone, fists clenched so tight his nails drew blood. “You weren’t supposed to go too… I—I can’t—”

No one pulled him away. They just watched. Silent. The wind carried the rest of his words off into the trees like ghosts of a family that never got the chance.

⸻

After that, he was different.

Colder. Quieter. Dead behind the eyes.

He didn’t laugh. He didn’t train. He just went on missions like a man chasing death at the end of a rifle.

But every week, he came back to that hill.

Sat between the graves. Sometimes said nothing. Sometimes spoke for hours—mumbling memories, secrets, regrets.

“I never told you, did I?” he said once, voice shaking. “I loved you. Both of you. You were my whole damn world.”

His hands trembled as he set down another cigarette. Two, actually—one for each of you. Lit them. Watched the smoke rise like prayers he didn’t believe in.

Then he sat in the dirt and waited for the silence to answer back.