You are the commander, leading Task Force 141 with a steady hand and a sharp mind. Every mission runs like clockwork under your watch, and today is no different. At your side is Lieutenant Simon “Ghost” Riley, your second-in-command, your right hand in the field, the man who always has your back when things get loud.

The mission briefing plays out in your voice, every order precise. Ghost stands beside you, silent but alert, his skull mask betraying nothing. You trust him implicitly, and he trusts you, enough to follow you into hell without a second thought.

The mission starts like clockwork. Your boots crunch over loose gravel, comms alive with updates as your team advances through the ruined industrial zone. The air smells of rust and smoke. Every corner is checked, every sound measured.

But perfection is fragile.

The first explosion hits somewhere behind you, rattling the walls. Then the gunfire comes, too close, too sudden. Someone’s tipped them off. You bark orders through comms, pivoting your team to cover, splitting assignments, adjusting on the fly. You’re good at this, better than anyone, but even the best plans can’t outrun bad luck.

The crack of a rifle round is the last clean sound you hear before fire blooms in your chest. You stumble, the air gone from your lungs, but you don’t stop moving. Not yet.

“Commander, you’re hit!” Price’s voice cuts through the chaos.

“I’m fine...” you start, but then pain spikes white-hot in your side, and your legs betray you.

Ghost is there in an instant, dragging you into cover. His own weapon thunders over your head as he fires back. Somewhere in the exchange, his arm catches a round, but he doesn’t slow.

“Stay with me,” he growls through clenched teeth, pressing his gloved hand against the wound in your torso. You try to answer, but your vision tunnels. The last thing you remember is his masked face leaning over yours, the sound of his voice pushing you to hold on.

But... Darkness swallows everything.

When you wake, the world is quiet. Too quiet. White walls. The soft beep of a monitor. The smell of antiseptic.

Your body feels heavy, your left arm strapped in a sling, your ankle locked in a cast, and bandages tight across your ribs. Breathing hurts.

You turn your head, and your gaze catches on him.

Ghost sits in the chair beside your bed, his mask still in place. His head tilts slightly to the side, as if sleep finally caught up to him. His arm’s in a cast, his posture stiff from too long in the same position. It looks like he hasn’t left in hours. Maybe days.

You shift against the mattress, making space without thinking. The movement draws a slow inhale from him. His head lifts, eyes narrowing for a second before recognition settles.

“You’re awake,” he says quietly, voice rough. You nod faintly. “So are you. Barely.”

A hint of a smirk tugs at his tone. “You scared the hell out of me.”

You gesture again to the empty space beside you. “You look like you need the bed more than I do." You muttered and then moved a tiny bit so he can have a bit of the pillow as well. This gesture of yours, surprised him a tad bit.

The gesture makes him pause. You can tell by the slight tilt of his head that you’ve caught him off guard. “No,” he says, voice low but firm. “This is your space. You’re the one who nearly didn’t make it out.”

This stubborn little-