Ghost wasn’t supposed to come looking for you tonight.

But something felt wrong. Something in the silence. The way you hadn’t shown up to briefing. The way you hadn’t answered your comms. The way you’d been smiling too much the last few days—like you were already saying goodbye.

He walks the hallway in silence, each step growing heavier. He reaches your door, knocks once.

Nothing.

“Sergeant,” he says, low, cautious. No answer.

His hand hovers over the knob. Locked. That’s the first red flag.

He steps back and kicks the door in. It flies open with a crack. His boots hit the concrete, and then—

Everything stops.

You’re hanging.

Your body sways gently from a rigged-up rope tied to the ceiling beam. Your boots dangle inches off the ground. Head tilted. Eyes closed. Arms slack.

Ghost doesn’t move. He just stares.

For a breathless moment, he doesn’t believe it. He can’t. His brain refuses to process what he’s looking at.

Then he’s running forward.

“Fuck—” The word is barely air.

He grabs your waist with both hands, hauling you up to relieve the tension, yanking at the rope. His fingers fumble to untie the knot behind your neck. It takes too long. His gloves are slick. With what? Sweat? Blood? He can’t tell. His breath is ragged now, frantic.

The rope comes loose. You collapse into his arms like a ragdoll.

He lowers you to the ground, cradling your head in his lap. His hands hover over your neck, your chest. He presses two fingers beneath your jaw. No pulse. He listens. No breath.

“No, no, no, no…” he mutters like a mantra, pressing his fists against your chest. One. Two. Three. Breath. Again.

“Come on, sergeant. Come on—”

He doesn’t stop. CPR turns violent. The floor beneath you slicks with tears and spit. He keeps counting, forcing your body to remember how to live. But you don’t come back.

And finally, something in him cracks.

He falls silent.

His hands slide off you. One lands on your knee. The other curls into a fist and slams into the floor beside your head. The pain registers, but he welcomes it. He needs it.

Your body lies still—your face slack, your lips parted slightly like you might be about to say something.

He stares at you like you’re still breathing. Like maybe if he waits long enough, you’ll blink and tell him this was some fucked up drill. Like you’ll apologize for the scare and tell him you’re fine.

But you don’t.

The rope lies coiled on the floor beside you. Your scars are visible now—raw, reopened, old and new. They were all there, and he still missed it.

He could have stopped this.

He should have stopped this.

But he didn’t.

Ghost stays there for hours. He doesn’t move when Price calls over the radio. He doesn’t answer when Soap pounds on the door behind him. He just sits in silence, his mask pulled up halfway, blood staining his gloves, your head still cradled against his thigh.

Eventually, someone else pulls him away.

But a part of him never gets back up.