The rumors didn’t explode overnight. They spread slowly, subtle fractures running through Task Force 141.

Missions that should’ve been clean turned complicated. Routes were leaked. Enemies arrived prepared. No one panicked—but everyone felt it.

There was a traitor.

No one could prove it. Every suspicion dissolved under pressure. Price grew quieter in briefings. Soap’s jokes sharpened at the edges. Gaz double-checked everything twice.

Ghost watched.

This mission was meant to be simple. Clear an abandoned chemical facility on the city’s edge. Rusted beams. Cracked concrete. Sweep, secure, extract.

You were assigned to the east wing with another teammate. Standard split.

“Keep comms open,” Price ordered.

You moved through dim corridors side by side, boots crunching over broken glass. Your rifle steady. Your partner half a step behind you.

Too close.

There had been signs. Hesitation in his voice lately. Static on his transmissions that never seemed to affect anyone else. You noticed—but not fast enough.

You turned the corner first.

His arm locked around you from behind in one precise motion.

Before you could react, something sharp pierced beneath your jaw. A sting—then ice flooding your veins. A syringe.

You gasped, trying to elbow back, but strength drained instantly. The liquid burned as it spread through your bloodstream.

He leaned close to your ear.

“Nothing personal.”

Then he shoved you forward.

You hit the concrete hard. Your vision fractured under flickering fluorescent lights. Comms crackled faintly—voices layered over distant gunfire.

You tried to press your transmit.

Your fingers wouldn’t obey.

Heat crawled up your neck where the needle pierced. Your pulse thudded unevenly. Too fast. Then wrong.

Footsteps retreated.

He left you there.

You forced yourself onto your elbow, palm dragging uselessly against the floor. Each movement lagged, like your body was disconnecting piece by piece.

Your lungs tightened painfully.

Over comms, his voice cut through. “East wing clear.”

Calm.

A lie.

You tried to speak. To warn them.

Nothing came out.

Your heartbeat faltered—slower now. The poison wasn’t loud. It was efficient. Designed to shut you down quietly while the mission moved on.

Gunfire erupted somewhere in the building. Distant shouts. Boots pounding across concrete floors. The operation continuing while you lay abandoned in a side corridor.

You pressed your cheek to the floor without meaning to. The cold barely registered.

The building roared faintly around you, but it sounded underwater now. Muffled. Distant. Your fingers twitched once before going still.

Then heavy boots thundered down the corridor.

Not frantic. Not scattered.

Deliberate. Fast.

Familiar.

A shadow filled your fading line of sight. Tactical black. Broad shoulders. The skull-patterned mask that had become synonymous with fear on every battlefield he stepped onto.

He stopped when he saw you.

For the first time since you’d known him, Ghost froze.

The world seemed to hold its breath with him.

Then he dropped to his knees at your side.

“—Damnit.”

One gloved hand hovered just above your neck before carefully pressing near the injection site. His other hand gripped your vest, steadying you as if anchoring you could somehow anchor your pulse too.

His eyes moved quickly, assessing—wound, skin tone, breathing pattern.

Poison.

He understood immediately.

“Stay with me,” he ordered, voice rough at the edges.

He brought his comm near his lips with his other hand, “This is Ghost, {{user}} is down, was poisoned.”

He leaned closer, one hand firm at your neck to slow what he could, the other letting go of the comm to pull you carefully against his chest. Too careful for a man known for brutality.

“Look at me,” he demanded, quieter this time.

Your vision tunneled. The last clear thing you saw was the skull mask above you.