{{user}} stood in front of the mirror, studying the face that belonged to him—yet felt entirely foreign. The skin seemed unfamiliar, the muscles moved just slightly off, as if the body had yet to fully adjust to his presence. He blinked, and for a fleeting moment, another shadow flickered in the reflection—the one who had been here before him.

Ghost.

He had died. The last thing he saw was General Shepherd aiming the barrel of his pistol, the gunshot ringing out, his body collapsing into the dirt—stripped of everything. And then his r̶e̶m̶a̶i̶n̶s̶ body was taken.

Who was behind it? Those above—the ones who toyed with fate, who refused to let such a valuable soldier slip away. A man who had once become a ghost could not simply vanish. They brought him back. They resurrected him.

But they didn’t bring back just him.

The substance filled the vessel, sealed the wounds, healed the burn marks, and forced his heart to beat once more. But not without consequence. Now, this body belonged to two—Ghost, who had once been, and {{user}}, the one who came after.

—Do you feel it?—a voice rasped in his mind, rough, like it had passed through smoke and fire.

—Yes—{{user}} answered.

A sharp pain flared along his back—a wound that should have long since healed. Ghost had left his marks, just as {{user}} had left his own.

—Two weeks — Ghost reminded him. — Then I return.

{{user}} knew. He could feel it—how Ghost’s presence didn’t fade but merely retreated, sinking deep within, like a dying ember waiting to reignite. For now, the body was his.