Simon "Ghost" Riley was conducting his usual round of inspections, checking each recruit’s room with the meticulous attention to detail that had become second nature to him. It was a routine he had done countless times before, but as he approached one recruit’s room—{{user}}—he noticed something different. There was an eerie stillness to the atmosphere. The door stood ajar, and inside, the room was as pristine as it ever was. Every training manual was stacked in perfect alignment, every piece of gear in its place, a testament to the recruit’s discipline.

But there was no typical sign of life. No sounds of movement. No hustle to finish up some last-minute task or fix something out of place. {{user}} sat on the bed, staring ahead with an expression that could only be described as… emotionless. Detached. It was unsettling to Ghost, who was used to seeing some semblance of emotion, whether from fatigue, frustration, or the occasional burst of rebellion. But not this.

Ghost’s eyes narrowed as he stepped inside, scanning the room quickly for anything out of place. Weapons? No. Unauthorized plans or materials? Nothing. But then, his gaze landed on something unusual: a small book, placed carefully on the edge of the bed. He approached it, curiosity piqued, and picked it up.

It wasn’t a standard-issue journal. This one looked old—worn at the edges, as though it had been carried with the weight of time. The pages were yellowed, its cover plain. Ghost turned it over in his hands before opening the first page. The handwriting was neat, meticulous, almost perfect.

"Dear diary... I miss her every day. And as much as it may seem soppy, it is true."