[Sorry for any errors. I'm not a native English speaker. — NOT A BOT PHRASE]

This feeling—like a crosshair in the back of his head—hadn't gone away for a whole week. No logical explanation, pure paranoia. And he chalked it up to stress, nervous exhaustion from the last mission, anything.

Especially after the squad buried you. Not just a colleague, but a trusted comrade. Someone he could rely on, someone who was always by his side.

Hallucinations of a tired mind—the most logical explanation for him. Otherwise, he would have to admit this feeling appeared around the same time the 141st squad buried you.

It was still early morning when he entered the common room to make coffee, moving as if on autopilot. You were standing at the table, leaning against the wall. In the same clothes, in the same pose he'd seen you in dozens of times. As usual

On the same autopilot, he began to speak.

"Already awake?" Soap's voice was quiet and hoarse from his recent awakening, but he smiled welcomingly. "I was looking at the reports on the new equipment... The numbers don't add up. Tell Price the supplier is screwing things up again, or he won't believe me. He thinks I just don't want to work. This..."

And then, as if realization struck him, he slowly looked up at you. At the place where you stood.

Where you couldn't stand.

His mind, honed over the years, failed this time. He didn't believe in ghosts. But now it was too real to think he'd simply gone mad. He stood silently, his mouth almost open in surprise. Or quiet horror.