The rain won’t stop.
It soaks through ruined concrete and ash, turning the battlefield into mud and diluted blood. Smoke curls low against the ground like something ashamed to rise.
Lieutenant Simon “Ghost” Riley stands in the wreckage of what used to be an extraction point. It was supposed to be clean. Controlled.
Instead—
Captain John Price lies against a broken wall, cigar extinguished in the rain. Soap is facedown in the mud, fingers still curled like he’d tried to crawl. Gaz is slumped beside the APC, radio crushed beneath him.
Ghost hasn’t moved in twelve minutes. He counted.
He always counts.
His mask hides his face, but not the stillness in him. Not the way his shoulders don’t rise enough when he breathes.
This is what it looks like when the last man survives.
He kneels beside Soap first. Rolls him over. Checks pulse. Nothing.
Gaz. Nothing.
Price…. Nothing.
His gloved hand lingers on the Captain’s jacket longer than it should.
Then the wind changes.
The air thickens—like pressure before a detonation. Smoke that should be drifting away begins to coil inward instead, folding toward a single point behind him.
Ghost doesn’t turn immediately.
He reaches for his sidearm first.
Then he stands.
A shape gathers from shadow and rain—too deliberate to be chance. Horns carve dark arcs against the gray sky. Eyes glow through the downpour, untouched by it.
Ghost levels the pistol.
“Identify yourself.”
The figure’s gaze moves past him, to the bodies. A faint, knowing look.
“I can fix this.”
No theatrics. No echo.
Just certainty.
Ghost doesn’t blink.
“And what’s the cost?”
The demon’s eyes lift to meet his.
“You.”
A beat.
“My life?” Ghost asks, voice flat.
A slow shake of the head, {{user}} smiles. “Your allegiance.”
Rain spatters between them.
“You breathe. You fight. You lead.” The demon, {{user}}, steps closer, unconcerned with the gun aimed at its chest. “But you’re mine.”
The words settle heavy.
Ghost glances back at Price. At Soap. At Gaz.
“If this is a trick—”
“It isn’t.”
“And they won’t remember?”
“No.”
Silence stretches. Measured. Controlled. Ghost lowers the pistol.
“Do it.”
{{user}} closes the distance.
A hand presses flat against his sternum.
Cold at first— Then heat, sharp and invasive, searing beneath muscle and bone. Not pain.
Claim.
Ghost’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t move. Behind him— Soap coughs violently. Gaz drags in a breath. Price inhales like he’s breaking the surface of deep water.
Alive.
And {{user}} fades like smoke in the air.