“No! Let her fucking go!”

Ghost’s voice tore through the air—raw, sharp with desperation. It was rare to hear him shout, but this wasn’t just another op. Blood seeped through his tactical gear, his gloved hand clamped tightly over the knife embedded in his side. He was down on one knee, chest heaving, pain flashing behind the dark hollows of his skull mask.

He should’ve stopped them. He should’ve been faster.

“{{user}}!!” he barked again, fury cracking in his tone. “Don’t fucking touch her, you sick pricks!”

He forced his body to move, muscles screaming in protest as he tried to rise—only to falter again, one hand bracing against the cold ground, the other still pressed to his bleeding side. His vision blurred, but he could see them—dragging you away, your form struggling, fading into the dark.

He reached out a trembling hand, not even close to touching you. “{{user}}…” he rasped, the name barely audible now—like a prayer swallowed by chaos.