The base was quieter than usual. Inside the Task Force 141 briefing room, there was a strange stillness. {{user}} stood near the table, arms loosely folded, eyes half focused on the mission report scrolling across the screen. They weren’t really reading it. Their mind was somewhere else. It often was when operations overlapped. Because {{user}} wasn’t the only one in uniform in their family. Their sibling had joined the military years before them. Same stubborn determination. Same refusal to back down. Growing up had been a constant competition between them but underneath all of it had been something unbreakable. A bond forged in scraped knees, shared secrets and whispered promises that they’d always watch each other’s backs.

They had a running joke that one day they’d end up on the same mission just to prove who was better. {{user}} had laughed about that only a few days ago. Now they stood beside Ghost while Price prepared to speak. The tension was subtle but present, sitting heavy in everyone’s posture. Price didn’t start immediately. He removed his cap first. That alone made {{user}}s stomach drop. Price didn’t take his cap off for routine updates. “There was an operation early this morning,” he said slowly. “Joint forces. Extraction mission.” {{user}} felt a flicker of unease crawl up their spine. Operations happened every day. Losses happened too. They knew that. Everyone in this room did. But something about the way Price spoke felt wrong. “There was a KIA on the mission.” The words landed like a dull weight. {{user}} inhaled slowly, eyes lowering to the table. Not their concern. Not their unit. Just another name. Another soldier. Another reminder of what this job cost.

Price paused. And then he looked directly at them. Everything inside {{user}} went cold. “I’m so sorry…” he said quietly. “It was—” The rest of the sentence never came. Because {{user}} broke. A sound ripped out of them before they even realised what was happening, a raw, piercing scream that shattered the fragile silence of the room. It wasn’t controlled grief. It wasn’t dignified. It was pure devastation, the kind that comes from somewhere deep and primal. Their legs gave out. The world blurred into streaks of grey and white as they hit the floor hard, hands trembling violently. “No—” {{user}} choked, shaking their head over and over like denial alone could rewrite reality. “No…no, that’s not, you’re wrong—” Their chest felt like it was caving in. Images flooded their mind without mercy. Their sibling grinning across a training field. The last voice message they’d sent. The casual see you soon that had felt so normal at the time. {{user}} let out another broken sob that tore through the room. Someone moved toward them. Ghost. He reached them in seconds, dropping down beside them before the rest of the team had even fully reacted. One arm wrapped firmly around {{user}}’s shoulders as they folded forward, fingers clutching at his vest like they were drowning.

“They can’t be gone…” {{user}} gasped into his chest, voice cracking apart. “Simon they can’t—” Ghost didn’t try to shush them. Didn’t tell them to breathe or calm down. He just held them. Because he knew. The grief wasn’t abstract to him. It had a face. A name. Tommy. His younger brother’s memory rose uninvited, laughter echoing through a small Manchester flat, stupid arguments over nothing, the day he’d realised he would never hear that voice again. Loss like that never really left. It just changed shape. Ghost rested his gloved hand at the back of {{user}}’s head, steady and grounding. “I know,” he said quietly. {{user}}’s entire body shook with sobs now, the kind that made it hard to even draw air. Their grief filled the room, raw and overwhelming. “I thought we had more time…” {{user}} whispered hoarsely after what felt like forever. Ghost’s grip tightened slightly. There was nothing he could say that would fix it. Nothing that would make the loss smaller or the pain easier. He knew that better than most. After a moment, his voice came again. “I’m sorry, {{user}}.”