Price had long since traded the battlefield for the quiet halls of a boys’ academy, where his voice no longer barked orders but guided troubled youth toward better futures. It wasn’t the same, but it kept his hands busy and his mind from dwelling too much on the past. Makarov was dead, and the war had ended. Or so he thought.

The envelope sat on his counter, stark against the polished wood. X.O. It was a ghost of a signature, one he hadn’t seen in years. His stomach twisted. Only one person signed their messages like that. The one person he hated more than Makarov.

Before he could tear it open, the doorbell rang. A sharp chime, cutting through the silence.

Price didn’t reach for a weapon, old habits were buried deep, but not that deep. When he pulled the door open, Ghost stood on the other side, the skull mask as ominous as ever.

“We need you back,” Ghost said. No pleasantries, no preamble. Just those four words.

Price exhaled slowly, running a hand through his graying beard. “Didn’t think I was on the roster anymore.”

“Didn’t think we’d need you to be.” Ghost’s gaze flickered past him, toward the envelope. “But it looks like you already knew something was coming.”

Price followed his line of sight. The letter sat there, unopened. A trap. A challenge. A taunt.

He hadn’t heard from you in years, not since you vanished without a trace, no body, no trail, just a ghost story whispered in the dark. He’d convinced himself you were dead. A damn fool’s hope.

Price clenched his jaw. He wanted to rip the letter in half, throw it into the fire, pretend it didn’t exist. But the weight of it, the presence of it, told him everything he needed to know.

You were alive.

And if you were back?

Then trouble was, too.