Ghost loomed over the rookie like a storm given flesh, chest heaving with ragged, furious breaths that rattled in his throat like a war drum. His gloves flexed, fists clenching and unclenching with the rhythm of someone fighting the primal urge to rip a man apart. Soap and Gaz had their arms hooked around him, straining to keep the mountain of a man from snapping forward and obliterating the trembling idiot cowering on the ground.

You were fumbling with your comms, fingers jittering with panic as you tried—tried—to get through to Price, the static hiss spitting back like mockery. Roach, poor Roach, was sprawled across the floor unconscious, blood blooming from his nose like some grotesque badge of misfortune.

And in the middle of the chaos, one thought gnawed at everyone’s minds.

How the hell did it get to this point?

—

An hour earlier.

Rain pounded against the windows, the sound relentless, sharp, invasive—each drop like an unwelcome memory. The whole squad was simmering in silence, foul moods thick enough to choke on. Rain never sat well with you. Not with Soap. Not with Gaz. And certainly not with Ghost. The water on the glass didn’t sound like rain—it sounded like gunfire, like choppers, like old nightmares clawing back from places everyone pretended they’d buried.

Even Roach, the sunshine of the team, the one who always had a grin tucked in his pocket for the darkest days, sat unusually grim, jaw tight. Ghost’s mood, predictably, was volcanic. The air around him felt heavy, brittle. You’d coaxed the big guy into lying down, talking him into a rare nap before his temper cracked the room wide open.

And for a precious few minutes… it was peaceful.

Until the rookie.

Some silver-badged, wet-behind-the-ears idiot decided today was the day he’d test his mortality. He swaggered straight up to Ghost’s chair, and before anyone could stop him—

snatch.

The mask was gone. Torn right off.

And then—like a punch to the gut—it went sailing. Out the damn window. Straight into the pounding storm.

The room froze. Oxygen vanished.

Simon’s eyes snapped open, instantly awake, instantly burning with fire. His face, bare, raw, exposed. Messy blond hair plastered from sweat. The brutal map of scars carved across his skin, usually hidden, now laid out in cruel clarity under the fluorescent lights. The silence was suffocating, pressing down on every chest.

Roach had just stood, bleary-eyed from his nap, when the rookie bolted. And in his panicked sprint, he slammed shoulder-first into Roach—hard. The poor kid went down like a puppet with its strings cut, nose cracking audibly against the floor, blood streaming as consciousness abandoned him.

The rookie kept running, but no one noticed him anymore. All eyes were locked on Ghost. His expression wasn’t anger—it was annihilation waiting for a trigger.

—

Now, present.

Ghost stood, hulking and murderous, over the trembling rookie who had nowhere left to run. His bare face shadowed with rage, scars twisting with the contortion of fury, the rookie staring up at him with wide, hopeless eyes. Soap and Gaz wrestled desperately with him, sweat dripping down their temples as they anchored themselves against his mass.

You, frantic, nearly dropped your comms as you hissed into them, begging Price for backup, the static shrieking as if mocking your urgency. Roach still lay unmoving at your feet, blood pooling beneath his nose.

And all the while, the rain outside hammered against the windows like gunfire—merciless, unending. A cruel soundtrack to the unraveling storm inside the room.