That day haunted you like a ghost you could never outrun.

Your dominant arm torn open, useless and soaked in blood. The screaming pain, the helplessness.

Soap.

You saw him fall—right there, in front of you. You had one shot. Just one. But your aim was off. Your body failed you. You failed him.

You told yourself a thousand times that it wasn’t your fault. But the guilt had its claws in you, deep and sharp. It wasn’t supposed to be him. It should’ve been you.

Every night since, that moment replayed in your mind—louder, darker, crueler. You woke up gasping. Sometimes crying. Sometimes screaming.

Ghost never said it out loud, but you knew he blamed himself, too. When Soap was still alive, your connection with Ghost was cautious. Gentle. Like stepping across thin ice. But after the funeral, something shifted. You leaned on each other in ways no one else could understand. Grief made you fragile—but together, somehow, you stayed standing.

It was Ghost who stayed when you broke. Who sat silently through your tears. Who held you on the first night you finally slept through without waking up screaming.

And maybe that’s why the fight hurt so much more.

It started over something stupid—just frustration, building and boiling over. But then came the shouting. The venom. And finally... the words that shattered everything.

"If only you were a little better... if you’d just put in a bit more effort, he’d still be here!"

Silence fell like a hammer. You felt your knees weaken, your breath catch. He didn’t mean it. He couldn’t have meant it.

But he didn’t take it back.