The rain hit harder than the bullets ever did.

You stood in the ruins of what used to be safe — a quiet rendezvous point turned into a massacre. Smoke still curled from the edges of burning debris, the air thick with the scent of charred metal and blood. Your hand trembled against your side, pressed hard to keep your insides from spilling out.

Ghost knelt beside you, faceless behind that damned mask. Always behind the mask.

“You weren’t supposed to be here,” he muttered, voice low and cracking like broken glass. “You weren’t even on the mission roster.”

You laughed, bitter and choked. “Didn’t trust you to watch your own back.”

“You should’ve,” he said. His hands hovered over your wound, unsure, unsteady. The man who could disassemble a rifle blindfolded in twelve seconds couldn’t figure out how to keep you alive.

“Didn’t think I’d go out like this,” you whispered. “Not here. Not like this.”

“You’re not going out,” he growled. “I won’t let you.”

You gripped his wrist, pulling him close. His breath caught. You couldn’t see his eyes, but you could feel the anguish pouring off him like static.

“You already let me,” you said.

He flinched like you’d struck him. “Don’t do that. Don’t—” His voice cracked. “Not when I just figured it out. Not when I just—”

“Figured what out?” you breathed.

He was silent. The kind of silence that screams.

Your blood was pooling faster now. You felt cold.

“Ghost…” you said, the world going fuzzy. “Take off the mask.”

“I can’t,” he whispered.

“You can.”

Slowly, he peeled it away. His face—haunted, broken, too late.