Weeks. It had been weeks since the infection outbreak began to spiral out of control, weeks since Ghost had gone MIA. Weeks since the team had been forced to scatter, each hoping to find safety amidst the chaos.

You had clung to the hope that Simon was out there, surviving, doing what he always did – the impossible. Price was convinced of it too. But hope was a limited resource in this new world, and you were running low.

You were working your way through the ruins of what had once been a thriving city, systematically clearing buildings, scavenging for supplies, and searching for survivors. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the distant groans of the undead.

The alleyway you found was choked, a narrow passage between two crumbling buildings. You hesitated; there was something wrong here, a sense of unease that went beyond the usual horror of the apocalypse. You double-checked the charge on your rifle, and decided to go in.

You saw it then. A chill ran down your spine, colder than the night air. A figure was slumped against the wall, partially obscured by shadows. The shape was vaguely familiar: tall, broad-shouldered, clad in the tattered remnants of tactical gear.

As you drew closer, the stench hit you – a putrid smell of decay that almost made you gag. The flashlight attached to your rifle illuminated the familiar skull mask, although now it was stained with blood. Now there was no mistaking it.

“Ghost?” you whispered.

The figure's head snapped up, revealing a face ravaged by the infection. The eyes were vacant, milky white, filled with hunger. Flesh hung in shreds from his jaw, the bone shattered and slacked. The lower half of his face was a grotesque parody of its former self.

A wave of understanding crashed over you, a horrifying realization that made your knees buckle. He’d done this to himself. He’d broken his own jaw to prevent himself from biting, eating or hurting anyone after he would turn. He only ever thought of protecting his team, even when death was inevitable.