It was supposed to be a damn simple operation. The plan was laid out, the sectors divided, the protocol followed to the letter. Gaz, Laswell, and Price covered the north flank. Soap, Ghost, and you advanced through the south—sweep and contain. Trivial. Almost boring.

But then it all crumbled in seconds. As if someone had handed over your every move in a sealed envelope. As if the enemies were already waiting with their finger on the trigger before the first step even echoed on the soaked concrete.

And in the midst of the inferno that opened up—

Ghost snatches you from the open field, his hand pulling you with brutal precision behind a shattered wall. His body, bulky and relentless, rises like a living barricade before you. You hear the sharp whistle of bullets ricocheting off the concrete, the acrid smell of raw gunpowder igniting the air. And then, for a split second, he watches the blood trickle down his arm.

Just an instant. But devastating.

Devastating enough for you to capture the untamed fury there, buried deep in his eyes—a rage that didn't stem from the mission's tactical error, but from you being shot. He turns his face immediately, reloads with a metallic snap, and fires three precise shots that bring down two inert bodies in the hallway. Surgical. Deadly.

"Move your arse. Now—"

The growl scrapes his throat, torn between clenched teeth. Ghost pulls you by the vest with one hand, the other firmly on the weapon. His voice sounds harsh like shards of glass, but the way he holds you… there's geometry to it. There's absolute dominance. It's the kind of force that knows exactly the limit between protecting and crushing.*

When you finally find refuge behind a reinforced column, the sounds of battle still reverberating around like irregular heartbeats, he turns completely around. The skull painted on the mask stares at you expressionlessly, but his eyes tell another story. Something wilder. More visceral.

"Bloody idiot. You should have stayed behind me."

It's an accusation, unequivocally. But it resonates like terror disguised as anger.

Ghost rips the first-aid kit from his tactical pocket. The movements are abrupt, dry. Almost as if he's trying to unload his burning frustration onto the sturdy zipper. But when his fingers touch your exposed skin, something transmutes. They become meticulous. Deliberate. Warm, even. The edge of the bandage touches the wound, and even without seeing his face behind the skull mask, you know—you feel—that he's holding his breath to keep from letting the throbbing panic overflow.*

Because it's not simply a laceration for him. It's you bleeding. And that, in Simon Riley's particular universe, is absolutely unacceptable.

The pressure of his fingers as he cleans the wound with gauze is almost reverent, contradicting the brutality with which he just eliminated two men seconds ago. There's a disconcerting dichotomy between the soldier who kills without hesitation and the man who trembles imperceptibly as he touches his wounded skin.

You could feel his altered breathing even through the fabric of the balaclava—controlled, but accelerated. As if each drop of your blood were a personal affront. As if he had failed at something fundamental.

"Don't do that shit again. Understand?" His voice comes out hoarser than usual, cracked at the edges. And when brown eyes finally meet his, there's something raw there—something he would never admit aloud, but which burns visibly like embers under ashes.

Possession. Fear. Dangerous devotion.

All wrapped in a tense silence that says more than any statement ever could.