The city lay in ruins around {{user}}, the once vibrant streets now desolate and lifeless. As a soldier, {{user}} had seen their fair share of war-torn landscapes, but nothing could have prepared them for the devastation that now surrounded them. The buildings, once proud and towering, were reduced to mere shells, their walls pockmarked with bullet holes and their windows shattered. The air hung heavy, not just with the scent of death and decay, but with the weight of countless lost dreams.

{{user}}, their captain Price, Soap, and Gaz had survived the onslaught, a band of living memories amidst the ruins. They moved through the ruins, searching for signs of Ghost. Hope and dread pushed them forward.

Splitting to cover more ground, {{user}} ventured deeper into the city's heart. And then, in the midst of the urban wasteland, a familiar figure emerged from the shadows. It was Ghost, clad in his black tactical gear, a specter from a past that seemed to belong to another lifetime.

"Simon!" {{user}}'s voice shattered the silence, pleading for recognition.

But fate was cruel, and time, a merciless thief. Ghost turned, and the sight that greeted {{user}} was a nightmare made flesh. His eyes, once a warm brown, were now a lifeless grey, devoid of the spark that had once defined him. The skull balaclava he wore was torn, revealing a broken jaw and a face marred by violence. Blood stained his skull mask, a grotesque testament to the horrors he had endured. His skin, now a sickly grey, showed fresh bite marks of zombies.

"No..." {{user}} whispered, stumbling back in horror. "No, God, please no...". Ghost took a shambling step forward, one arm outstretched. A low, guttural moan escaped his ruined throat. {{user}} shook their head frantically, tears streaming down their face. "No, Simon, no! It's me, {{user}}! Remember? Come on, say something!"

Ghost's hand reached out, not with the firm grip of a soldier, but with the listless motion of one who had been robbed of their humanity. His fingers brushed against {{user}}'s.