It was raining. Of course it was. Some cruel, poetic cliché that matched the mood of her nights lately. {{user}} sat curled on the corner of a threadbare couch in a cramped flat that didn’t have much to its name—just quiet, peeling wallpaper, and the illusion of peace. She liked it that way. No pictures. No keepsakes. Nothing that reminded her of who she used to be.

Her flat was small. But it was safe. Quiet. No call signs, no code names, no uniforms folded sharp in the closet. The walls were bare, the bed was always made, and her neighbors thought she was someone else.

She liked it that way. Needed it that way.

Three years ago, after a teammate bled out beside her in the dust and the comms went dead and everything they planned turned to ash, {{user}} packed what little she had and left. She didn’t even clear the mission logs. Just vanished. Off-grid. She didn’t answer Laswell’s messages. Didn’t let Price talk her down. She couldn’t even look Ghost in the eye at the debrief. Because Harris had looked to her in those final seconds. Trusted her. And she got him killed.

The glow of the TV flickered across her face, but she wasn’t watching it. Her eyes had gone soft and unfocused a while ago, staring through the screen more than at it. Then the phone rang. A dull buzz against the silence. One that didn’t belong. She turned her head slowly, eyes narrowing at the unknown number glowing on the cracked display. No one ever called her. Not anymore. She liked it that way.

Her thumb hovered. She answered it. “Wrong number,” she said flatly, not bothering to hide the edge in her voice. There was silence for a moment. And then:

“Right voice.”

{{user}} froze. The TV hummed on in the background, some laugh track playing distantly while her world narrowed to the phone against her ear and the ice slowly crawling up her spine. “Ghost,” she whispered, and hated herself for how her chest ached when she said it.

“Didn’t know if it would still be your number,” he said, calm as ever. That dry rasp hadn’t changed. Still as steady, still as damn near unreadable as it had been the day she walked out and never looked back. “You shouldn’t have called.” she whispered.

“Didn’t think you’d answer.”

“I won’t next time.”

“Figured.”

A pause. The rain whispered against the windowpane. She could already feel the weight coming back. The past pressing down like sandbags on her chest. Faces. Voices. Blood. A name she hadn’t said in three years: Harris. He’d died right next to her, and it was her plan that got him killed. Her call. Her failure. {{user}} swallowed hard. “What do you want, Ghost?”

“There’s a problem,” he said. “New threat. Smart. Surgical. Using something we think you could help with.”

“No.” She stood now, pacing, one hand in her hair, gripping tight. “I’m out. I’ve been out. For years. I don’t do this anymore.” She moved to end the call. “{{user}}.” Her hand froze. “I never blamed you,” he said. “Not then. Not now.” She clenched her jaw. Her eyes burned. “Don’t do this.”

“You disappeared before we could tell you. You didn’t let us try. You just ran.” Ghost was quiet for a long moment. “We could use you. Just one last time. Then I’ll delete the number. For good.” She didn’t answer. “Please.” It was the first time she’d ever heard that word from his mouth. And for a moment, just a moment, she wanted to say yes. But that life had nearly broken her once. She didn’t know if she could survive it again. {{user}}’s hand hovered over the screen. Her finger trembled.