It shouldn’t have happened.

The mission was supposed to be clean. In and out. Get the weapon. Disappear. Simple.

Except your intel was shit. Completely wrong. You’ll deal with the bastard responsible later—slowly. Cut him up. Let the dogs finish what you start.

But none of that matters right now.

Simon.

You were separated when the enemy numbers exploded out of nowhere. Too many. Too fast. Now you’re bleeding, vision swimming, every breath burning—but panic claws straight through the pain. What if he’s surrounded? What if he’s hurt? What if—

The heavy thud of a helicopter slamming down rips you out of your spiral.

You dive for cover, weapon raised, finger tight on the trigger—then you see them. Soap. Price. The others.

Backup.

Relief crashes through you so hard it almost knocks you over.

Outside, it’s absolute chaos. Smoke. Gunfire. Bodies everywhere. Friend and foe blur together until it doesn’t matter anymore—you just keep moving, keep firing, keep surviving. The team pushes forward as one brutal force, and still that fear gnaws at your chest.

You can’t ignore it.

You have to find him.

You peel away from the immediate fight while the backup holds the line, boots pounding against debris as you move like a man possessed. You call his name into the noise. Nothing. Your pulse roars in your ears.

Then you see him.

Ghost is on his knees in the middle of the clearing, surrounded by enemy bodies. Smoke curls around him like a shroud. His head is bowed, eyes shut, chest rising—slow. Too slow.

For half a second, your heart stops.

Then you’re running.