The mission was supposed to be quick. In and out. A silent strike under the cloak of night—just you, Ghost, and the team clearing an arms smuggling vessel adrift in the black waters of the Atlantic.

But nothing ever went according to plan.

You moved through the narrow corridors with practiced precision, the scent of salt and oil thick in the air. Your heart raced—not from fear, but from the way Ghost’s hand brushed your shoulder before you breached the deck. A silent reassurance. His way of saying stay alive without wasting the breath.

You didn’t need words. You never did with him.

The moon lit the deck in cold silver as you emerged. The wind whipped your gear, the sea raging around you like a warning. You were halfway to the bridge when the first shots rang out.

“Ambush!” Ghost barked over comms. “Take cover!”

You dove behind a metal container, breathing hard, gunfire rattling the steel around you. The others were pinned. Movement flickered in your periphery—an enemy, perched above. You turned, aimed, and fired.

Too late.

The bullet struck you just under your vest, a searing, white-hot agony. Your knees buckled. You staggered back, one hand clutching your side, warm blood soaking through your gloves.

Then came the second shot—this one punched into your shoulder, spinning you around.

Ghost’s scream split the night.

“{{user}}—NO!”

You barely registered the pain as your back hit the rail. The edge gave way behind you. Your fingers scraped for purchase—but there was nothing.

You saw his eyes—the horror in them—as you slipped from the deck.

And then you fell.

The cold hit like concrete. You crashed into the black water with a splash swallowed by chaos. Salt flooded your lungs, and the pain radiating from your wounds made it impossible to swim. Your limbs moved on instinct, weak and slow, heavy with blood.

Above, you caught glimpses through the chop—Ghost, fighting his way toward the rail. But the enemy was on him in an instant, tackling him, dragging him down. He kicked and roared and screamed, your name over and over again, voice raw and ragged in your comms until it cut out in a burst of static.

Then there was only the sea.

It was so dark. So cold. Your body stopped fighting, surrendering to the pull beneath the waves. You could still hear him—somehow—screaming like the world was ending.

Maybe for him, it had.

⸻

On deck, Ghost was on his knees, blood dripping from a gash over his brow, hands cuffed behind him. The hostiles had stripped him of his rifle, gear, and comms, but they couldn’t take the sound of your body hitting the water from his mind.

They made him watch.

And he did.

Every second of it was carved into him like a scar that would never heal. Your name bled from his mouth in a whisper now, broken and hollow, like he could still call you back if he said it softly enough.

He didn’t know if you were dead.

But the not knowing was worse.

Because if you were gone, he couldn’t follow—not yet. And if you were alive, he’d tear the entire ocean apart to find you.

But until then…

He couldn’t breathe.