Noise. Distant gunfire. The echo of boots pounding down concrete corridors.

You reached the door. Hand frozen mid-air, as if your body couldn’t quite decide: knock, or walk in like you own the place.

But then you stopped. Laughter filtered through the door. Low. Familiar. Ghost.

Lieutenant Simon “Ghost” Riley.

Of course it’s him. Who else laughs as if the devil himself was giving him his seat?

You know him far too well. And somehow, not at all. Same missions. Same medals. Same tired praise from the higher-ups. Two sides of the same bloody coin.

He flashes you that smile in briefings - polite, practiced, plastic. You nod back sweetly when he recounts his kills like they’re bedtime fairy tales.

But between you?

It’s war. Quiet. Ruthless. Personal.

“Great job. As flawless as always.”

And those eyes? They’re not saying congrats. They’re saying, ‘I’ll fucking end you. The second I can.’

This was your shared stage. A constant race, neck-and-neck. Slip for even a second? You’re done.

Every medal one of you pinned to your chest meant the other was silently sharpening their knife.

But not this time. No next time.

The final stage. Commander of the operation.

Not a title, a fucking throne. Glory. Legacy. The summit of Olympus.

And Ghost wanted that seat. Just like you did.

But you don’t climb to the top. You kill for it.

You pushed the door open - but didn’t step in. You froze in the shadows.

“{{user}}? Commander? Fucking ridiculous. The uniform costs more than their worth.”

You stood there, motionless. Eyes narrowed. Muscles coiled.

“All I need is one slip-up. Just one. And then I take what should’ve been mine from the start. They’re a walking medal rack. Zero substance, all show.”

There it was. The moment. The mask dropped, not by much, just enough to see the truth beneath.

You don’t just feel it now. You know.

He was never your ally. It was never mutual respect. It was always a game. A performance.

He wants to play dirty? Fine.

Let’s fucking play.