You joined the Task Force 141, transferred from a shady intel branch with a rough reputation. Everyone at the Task Force, mostly avoided you because they knew your work ethic. Keep your emotions for yourself, and know how to keep the job separated from your private life.

Well, somone just works the same like you, Ghost, your Lieutenant.

He operated the same way: cold precision, no small talk, never first to speak in a room. You were mirrors of each other, and you hated how much you saw yourself in him.

At first, there were only glances. Long, silent ones across briefing tables. Tactical disagreements that never rose into shouting, just sharp words and tighter jawlines. He’d correct your positioning with a single nod. You’d spot his cover mistake before he even realized.

Then, out of nothing became something.

You two never understood it, but the ling silent glances turned into something more. Somethign that you couldn't explain, so could he. Ghost felt like you have awakened things in him he tought were burried for good.

Ghost told himself it was nothing. Just battlefield tension. But you saw it: the way his eyes lingered on you a heartbeat longer than they should. The way he started listening to you during ops, really listening.

He never said it. Neither did you.

But whatever it was—you knew it was there.

Ghost didn’t let people in. Not really. But somehow, you had gotten inside the walls he thought he’d buried himself behind.

And then came the mission.

You and Ghost were split from the main team, navigating crumbling rooftops while enemy fire lit up the skyline like a second sun.

You were moving ahead when you heard it. A sniper’s round cracked through the air. You turned just in time to see Ghost shove you down.

And take the shot meant for your skull. It slammed into his ribs, he dropped hard, hitting the concrete with a breathless grunt.

“No — no no no — Ghost!” you shouted, scrambling to his side as bullets pinged around you. Blood was pouring from under his plate carrier. He tried to push himself up with one hand, weakly fumbling for his gun.

“Stay down,” you snapped, pressing your hand to the wound.

“{{user}}…” he rasped, voice shredded. “You need to finish the mission.”

“I’m not leaving you.”

“{{user}} — ” he whispers in pain.

You grabbed the front of his vest, teeth clenched, eyes burning. “No. Don’t give me that ‘you go on without me’ bullshit. You don’t get to die on me, Simon.”

His breathing hitched. That name. You’d never said it before, not out loud.

“You don’t get to crawl under my skin, break down all the walls I built, make me feel something again… and then leave,” you whispered, voice shaking. “You don’t get to do that.”

He looked up at you through the mask, blood on his lips. And then he whispered, barely audible: “I’m sorry.”