You never meant for it to go this far.

It started with shadows – whispers in the dark, meetings in alleys with men who smelled of gunpowder and vodka. You told yourself it was survival. You told yourself Makarov offered something Price never could: power. Freedom. You didn’t expect to fall for Ghost.

You and Ghost got close during one of the missions. Quiet moments during watch shifts turned into bruised kisses behind cover, turned into whispered promises you never deserved to make. He trusted you. God help him, he trusted you.

And you handed him a bullet wrapped in betrayal.

You told Makarov where the 141 team would be. Said it would be clean. Said they wouldn’t suffer. That wasn’t true.

You watched it all fall apart in the static haze of your comms feed – Gaz choking on blood and Soap screaming for Price before the explosion cut them both off. You asked Makarov if Ghost survived. He laughed and said no. You believed him.

Weeks passed. You moved like a ghost yourself now, haunted by what you'd done. Makarov patted you on the back, called you his little reaper, poured you vodka. You smiled. You drank. You felt nauseous.

And then it came.

A plain envelope, dropped under your door like a curse. You opened it with shaking fingers. Inside: a single black skull mask, stained and burned around the edges.

And a note.

I’m still alive, bitch. I’m coming for you.