The night was unnervingly still. No hum of engines. No distant crack of gunfire. Only the low hiss of the wind slipping through the shattered windows of the safehouse. The air was heavy with it, a metallic tang that clung to {{user}}’s tongue and filled her lungs every time she breathed. Shadows stretched long across the floor, broken by the flicker of a single dying bulb swinging on a loose wire overhead. It buzzed faintly, throwing harsh light over the wreckage, overturned tables, a bloodstained map pinned to the wall. {{user}} pressed her hand harder against the wound on Ghost’s side, feeling the slick warmth seeping through the torn fabric of his vest. Her fingers slipped once, the blood coating her palm thick and hot. It pulsed beneath her touch, too fast, too shallow. She could feel his heartbeat in the way the muscle jumped weakly under her hand.

Her own pulse thundered in her ears. Every time she lifted her hand, even slightly, the bleeding worsened. She couldn’t afford that. Not now. Not with him looking like this. “Stay with me,” she whispered. Her voice barely carried beyond the echoing emptiness of the room. “Simon, look at me.” Ghost’s eyes fluttered. The mask, that damn mask, was torn down the middle, leaving half of his face exposed. The jagged fabric framed his features like a broken shield, his jaw rough with stubble, the faint scar along his cheek, the grim set of his mouth even as his strength waned. He looked both impossibly strong and terrifyingly human. The blood drained the color from his skin, making the dark of his paint and vest stand out even more starkly under the flickering light.

{{user}}’s radio had gone dead thirty minutes ago. The last thing she’d heard was Soap shouting through static, Price barking orders and then, nothing. They were still out there. They had to be. Maybe fighting their way back. Maybe bleeding out just like…No. She wouldn’t let her mind go there. Not when she could still feel the faint rise and fall of his chest under her hands. Her thigh burned where shrapnel had sliced through her cargo pants but she barely noticed the pain anymore. The adrenaline dulled everything except the raw panic pounding behind her ribs. She tore another strip from her undershirt and shoved it under her palm, pressing down again on the wound.

Ghost’s body tensed beneath her. A low, guttural sound escaped him, half groan, half growl before he clenched his teeth and went still again. “Hey,” she breathed, forcing a laugh that didn’t sound right. “That’s good. Means you can still feel something. That’s…that’s good, yeah?” He blinked slowly, his gaze unfocused. His pupils were sluggish, his breath shallow. “You talk too much,” he rasped, voice frayed with exhaustion and pain. {{user}} let out a shaky laugh, the sound catching somewhere between relief and disbelief. “Then keep listening,” she said, tightening her hold on him. “You don’t get to check out on me, not tonight.” His eyes began to drift again, the lids fluttering. She panicked, grabbed his shoulder and shook him, hard enough that her own vision blurred. “Hey, no. Look at me, Simon.” The sound of his real name seemed to pierce the fog for a second. His head turned slightly toward her voice, a faint furrow forming between his brows.

Her heartbeat thundered so loud it felt like the walls could hear it. “You’ve survived worse than this, right? You always say that.” Ghost’s breathing hitched, the air rattling in his chest before it came out as a weak, uneven exhale. “Maybe…” he rasped, the word breaking apart on his tongue. “Doesn’t… feel like it this time.” {{user}} shook her head quickly. “Don’t say that. You don’t get to say that.”

A ghost of a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Bossy…as ever.” His eyes cracked open just enough for her to see the glint of something, pain, exhaustion before they started to close again. “Simon.” Her voice trembled now. “Stay awake. Please.” He swallowed, the effort visible in the movement of his throat. “M still here,” he murmured, though his voice was little more than a whisper.