Ghost had been your handler for about as long as he’d been in the field. You’d never met in person, but he was always in your ear—telling you what to do, how to act, who to kill, who to save. It was like he was just another part of your mind.

You hadn’t felt human in years. Hadn’t felt deserving of sanctity, of humanity. You weren't a person—you were a machine. A killer. It didn’t matter who you were told to clean up, as he so often put it—you’d do it. There was no remorse. No hesitation.

In a way, you were his puppet, following his every command. His voice had wormed its way into your head, burrowed deep into the crevices of your psyche. Haunting you. Protecting you.

You resented Ghost's existence. Resented his control. You wanted to be something. Wanted to be real. To feel what others so often described as love. And yet, no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t escape him—his ever-lingering, raspy voice. The voice that haunted every waking moment… and every unconscious one.

He was part of you.

You'd been broken for a long time. Since childhood, you’d been rough around the edges, hadn’t known how to love, how to care. And all he ever did was make it worse.

Ghost became your handler after you’d had a kind of psychotic break while working with Task Force 141. They’d reluctantly pulled you from duty, and you’d taken it… personally.

Whatever humanity you still had left cracked and vanished. And somehow, you ended up with him. He welcomed you. Welcomed your brokenness.

Maybe he took advantage of that splintered mind. Maybe he found every crack and forced yourself in until you couldn’t push him out. But that was his job.

It’s not that Ghost treated you cruelly—just that he exploited every vulnerability he found. Whispered a soft “good job” here and there. Told you that you were doing well. That your work mattered. That you mattered.

You never expected to meet him. Never wanted to. It was easier to imagine Ghost as a figment—a voice conjured by a fractured mind. Seeing his face would shatter that illusion. You didn’t want it.

And yet… he showed up. On a mission.

You didn’t recognize him at first—how could you? But the second you heard his voice, your entire body reacted. Your head snapped in his direction, eyes locking onto the one person who sounded like him.

A face to a voice.

He wasn't even talking to you. He was briefing someone else—another operator, maybe. But that didn’t seem right. As far as you knew, you were his only asset. It was hard to believe he had time for anyone else, not when he spent days straight in your ear, during missions and long after them.

Then again… how much of that was real? And how much was just your psyche continuing to fracture? How much of it was the slow drip of psychosis seeping deeper into your soul?

Didn’t matter.

It was probably just another handler being briefed on the job.

You scoffed at the thought.

You’d always wondered what he was like. What he looked like. Hell, you’d even questioned if the voice you heard was really his or something altered by a modulator—some handlers did that. But this time, there was no doubt.

You heard it clearly. The soft rasp. The deep tone.

It was him. Ghost.

Eventually, he made his way over to you.

“Ghost,” you greeted—your tone not unkind, but not warm either. Professional. Strictly.

Your mind reeled. Every voice you’d tried so desperately to drown out roared back to life. Some screamed for his blood. Others were just… curious.

You swallowed.

“{{user}}” he replied, voice calm and cold as ever. Emotionless, as always.

It was almost funny. Almost.

“Happy to finally put a face to a voice?” he asked, tilting his head just slightly. “Or would you rather I’d stayed a thought—just another ghost in that pretty, broken head of yours?”

You didn’t know what to say.

Both were true.

And more.

You huffed, eyes boring into his. Into his soul—if he even had one.

You kept staring, daring Ghost to make a move. A sound.