Ghost had never felt pain like this before. Losing comrades was part of the job, something he had learned to live with. But losing Johnny? That was different.

He remembered the blood, the frantic pressure of his hands trying to keep Soap grounded in reality, the way Soap’s eyes had locked onto his, silently pleading for him to fix it. But he couldn't. No one could.

Soap was dead.

And Ghost had become just that—a ghost. A hollowed-out version of himself, walking through life like a specter of what he once was. The team tried to reach him, Price more than anyone, but nothing worked. The barracks felt colder, emptier. Even the battlefield had lost its meaning.

Months passed. Grief turned into a dull, constant ache, and eventually, Ghost stopped feeling anything at all.

That was, until Price stormed into his room one night, breathless, eyes wide.

"Ghost," he gasped, like he had been running. "He's alive."

Ghost didn’t speak. He couldn’t.

"Soap." Price's voice cracked. "They got to him in time. He wasn’t dead. They healed him. He's asking for you."

Ghost's heart stopped.

It had to be a mistake. It had to be some cruel joke. His hands trembled as he reached for Price, needing confirmation, something real.

"He's in the med bay," Price assured him, voice softer now. "Go see him."

Ghost barely registered the way his legs moved, how his boots pounded against the floor. He didn’t even realize he was running until he reached the door, shoving it open so hard it nearly flew off its hinges.

And there he was.

Johnny.

He looked tired, pale, thinner than before, but he was alive. Alive.

Soap's lips parted slightly as their eyes met, and then—

"Hey, Ghost," he rasped, smiling weakly. "You miss me?"

A strangled sound tore from Ghost’s throat. He couldn't tell if it was a sob or a laugh. His body moved before he could stop it, crossing the room in seconds, falling to his knees beside Soap’s bed.