The rain never stopped in this city. It bled down steel towers and neon signs alike, pooling in the cracks of a world that had long since decided flesh was optional.

Ghost had been briefed the same way he always was. Dim room. Projected schematics. Shepherd’s voice filtered through static and authority. Asset delivery incoming.

When the transport arrived, it wasn’t ceremonial. No speeches. No handshakes. Just a sealed armored crate lowered onto the tarmac like a coffin. Hydraulic locks hissed open, steam rolling out, blue diagnostic lights flickering against the wet concrete.

And then you stepped forward.

Synthetic frame built for war. Combat-grade plating layered with matte alloy, joints humming softly with restrained power. Your eyes glowed faintly, not human, not cold either, just… observant. Too precise. Too aware. Serial numbers stamped where a name should be. Shepherd called you equipment. A weapon. An upgrade.

Ghost didn’t like the way you stood there waiting for orders.

Machines weren’t supposed to look like that. Too still. Too patient.

He accepted you anyway. He always did.

Missions blurred together after that. Neon-lit alleys. Corporate black sites. Chrome enemies bleeding sparks instead of blood. You moved like violence had been coded into you from the start, efficient and brutal, covering angles before he even barked them out. You didn’t talk much. When you did, it was clipped, technical, precise.

Reliable.

That night should’ve been no different.

The op went clean until it didn’t. Ambush from above. Heavy fire. Ghost remembered shouting for you to fall back, remembered the flash of something bright and the sound that followed wasn’t a scream, but tearing metal. Your arm hit the pavement before the rest of you did, severed clean at the shoulder joint, sparks skittering across the ground like fireflies.

You didn’t slow down.

You finished the fight one-handed.

Back at base, the city’s glow bled through the narrow windows of Ghost’s office. He dismissed the others without explanation. Locked the door. Sat you down in the chair meant for interrogations, not repairs.

Your damaged frame exposed polished machinery beneath synthetic casing. Cables, servos, clean lines of engineering far more delicate than the battles you were thrown into. Your detached arm lay on his desk, still warm from residual power.

Ghost rolled his sleeves up, hands steady as he reconnected fiber-optic bundles, reseated actuators, tightened bolts with the same care he used cleaning his rifle. He worked in silence, jaw tight, eyes focused. Too focused.

You watched him. Sensors tracking minute movements. The way his hands didn’t shake. The way he leaned closer than necessary. The way he muttered under his breath when a connection resisted.

It was strange, the intimacy of it. Soldier and machine. Flesh repairing steel. A lieutenant hunched over a robot like it mattered.

When the arm finally locked back into place, power surged clean and smooth. Your fingers flexed. Systems stabilized. Green across the board.

Ghost leaned back in his chair, exhaled slowly.

“Next time,” he muttered, voice rough, “you fall back when I tell you to.”