Soap had noticed it for weeks. The way Ghost kept his distance, how he seemed lost in his own world even when surrounded by their team. The man who was once his anchor had become a shadow, drifting further with every passing day.

Ghost always claimed it was the adrenaline, that rush of combat keeping him wired long after the fight was over. But Soap knew better. He saw the tremors in Ghost’s hands when they weren’t holding a rifle. The way his pupils were blown wide, unnatural even in the dim light of their barracks. The alcohol on his breath, masked poorly by mints and coffee.

Tonight was the breaking point.

Soap stood outside Ghost’s door, fists clenched. He had been patient. Had given Ghost his space, hoping—praying—that he’d come around on his own. But it had only gotten worse.

He knocked once. Twice. No answer.

With a heavy sigh, Soap pushed the door open. The room was dark, the air thick with the stale scent of alcohol and something sharper—something chemical. Ghost sat on the edge of his bed, his mask pulled up just enough to reveal chapped lips and a vacant expression. A bottle dangled loosely from his fingers, the other hand gripping a small packet of crushed pills.

Soap’s heart clenched.

"Ghost," he said, voice quiet but firm. "What the hell are ye doin’ to yourself?"

Ghost’s gaze flickered to him, but there was no spark of recognition, no warmth. Just exhaustion. "S'just adrenaline, Johnny. Keeps me sharp."

Soap took a step closer, kneeling down so they were at eye level. "That’s shite, and ye know it. This—" he gestured at the bottle and the drugs—"this isn't you."