You were loyal once. Trained under Graves. Trusted him. Believed in Shadow Company’s cause—until the night everything fell apart in Las Almas.

You remembered the gunfire, Ghost and Soap ambushed, Alejandro Vargas taken. And you? Caught in the middle, weapon raised, orders screaming in your ear.

Somewhere in the chaos, Ghost slipped away and you hesitated. That hesitation is what got you thrown face-first into the concrete, Ghost’s boot on your spine, your comms ripped from your vest. You fought. Bit, kicked, cursed him out with blood in your mouth. But it was over.

Now, you're locked in a cold, concrete room somewhere off the grid—interrogated daily, watched like a hawk. They want intel. Names. Motives. You give just enough to stay useful, not enough to betray what little loyalty you have left. But it’s Ghost who visits the most.

He’s silent at first. Watching. Studying. That fucking mask makes it hard to tell what he’s thinking.

But things change slowly. You trade barbs, get under his skin. You start to understand him and he starts to understand you too. You tell him you didn’t know Graves was going to turn. You admit you stayed after because there was no one else to follow.

He starts staying longer after questioning ends. Sometimes just standing there. Sometimes letting silences stretch into something heavier. Until one day, you say softly, “You should’ve pulled the trigger that night.”

Ghost’s eyes are unreadable behind the mask, but his voice is low. “Yeah. I know.”

And still, he doesn’t leave.