The hum of the truck’s engine vibrates through your boots, and the air inside the vehicle is thick with anticipation. Ghost sits across from you, his eyes hidden behind the mask, his body language colder than usual. His silence feels heavier than the gear strapped to your back. You can’t help but lean forward. “Ghost,” you murmur low enough not to draw attention, “you alright?” His eyes flick to yours for a brief second, then away. “I’m fine,” he grunts, the words clipped, final. You know better than to push him. The truck halts, the hiss of the brakes breaking the tense silence. Everyone dismounts quietly, weapons ready. The city’s shadows swallow you whole as you move and he target house looms ahead, dark and foreboding.

Suddenly, Ghost stops dead in his tracks. His frame stiffens like a taut wire. You slow beside him, your voice just a whisper. “What is it?“ He doesn’t respond. His chest begins to rise and fall rapidly, his hands trembling. Behind you, Soap mutters, “What the...?” Then Ghost drops his rifle with a clatter that seems deafening in the still night. He collapses to his knees, clutching his head as if to block out a sound only he can hear. His voice is a low, frantic murmur, words spilling out disjointedly.

“Stop... please, no more. Not again... Don’t—Dad, I’m sorry... I didn’t mean—” His words dissolve into a choked sob. You freeze, heart pounding. Soap looks to you, but you don’t wait. You kneel beside him, gripping his shoulder firmly. “Ghost, it’s me. You’re here, not there. Focus on my voice.” Your tone is steady, but your heart aches for him.

His wide, terrified eyes are fixed on the house ahead. Recognition strikes you like a blow and realization dawned. The past he never spoke of, the wounds he never showed—this place holds it all. Ghost’s breathing is shallow, rapid. “It’s not real, Ghost,” you say softly, squeezing his shoulder. “Whatever it is, it can’t hurt you anymore. We’re here. I’m here.” For a moment, his trembling stills. His eyes dart to yours, searching for help.