Ghost’s plane jolted violently, the world tilting as the sky tore around them. Alarms blared, the fuselage groaned, and through the chaos he caught it—the other aircraft. Alpha Team. Shot out of the sky. Flames licked the sides of the cabin before the pilot screamed something unintelligible. Ghost didn’t panic. He didn’t have time for it.

He watched, heart tightening despite himself, as the figures of alpha team were thrown clear, the plane twisting violently. He tracked each one, noting trajectories, distances, wind, and terrain. Then he saw {{user}}—ejected from the wreck, tumbling in the air. A parachute floated behind them, shredded, flames curling along the edges. His jaw tightened. The smoke, the fire, the distance—all of it mattered. Timing mattered. Every second counted.

The plane shuddered beneath him, giving him only a moment to respond. Ghost readied himself, pulling his harness, calculating the jump, and preparing for impact. He hit the ground hard, rolling instinctively, eyes flicking to {{user}}. Smoke and debris painted the clearing, the acrid scent of burning fabric stinging his nostrils.

{{user}} had landed but hadn’t rolled properly. Burns streaked their back and arms, fabric clinging to wounds. Footsteps crunched near—he could see the panicked Sergeant struggling to crawl away. Ghost didn’t hesitate.

“Ay ay! Easy there, yer’ burned to a crisp…” His voice cut sharply through the chaos, authoritative but tinged with that familiar clipped edge he always carried.

He reached {{user}}, yanking them off the ground with precise force, careful not to worsen the injuries he could see. The burns flared, and {{user}} instinctively resisted, a flash of tension in their posture—but Ghost didn’t release. Every move was calculated: get them out of immediate danger, assess the surroundings, survive the smoke, the fire, the chaos.

“You’re going to get yourself killed if you don’t move,” he said, voice low, steady, and unwavering. No pleasantries, no waiting for thanks—he had no time. Ghost’s eyes swept the treeline, noting fire, smoke, debris, and potential enemy movement.

The clearing ahead offered just enough space to pause. Ghost eased {{user}} down, still holding firm on their arm. Their breaths were shallow; the tension in their body was taut but controlled. Ghost’s own chest heaved, the adrenaline sharp, but his mind remained razor-focused. Every detail mattered: wind direction, footing, distance to cover.

“You’re lucky I got here when I did,” he muttered, low, dry, with the faintest edge of something unreadable beneath his stoicism. “You’re not going anywhere without me.”