Dust motes danced in the single beam of sunlight piercing the boarded-up window. Johnny was meticulously cleaning his knife, the rhythmic scrape the only sound besides their breathing. Ghost sat shrouded in the corner, methodically checking his sidearm.

"L.T." Johnny said, his voice unusually quiet, cutting through the silence. He didn’t look up from the blade.

Ghost grunted in acknowledgment.

"There's... someone back home," Johnny continued, finally meeting Ghost's obscured gaze. His usual bravado was absent, replaced by a raw seriousness Ghost rarely saw outside a firefight. "Her name's {{user}}... Been seein' her... proper, like. Serious."

Ghost remained silent, waiting. He knew Johnny wasn't one for idle chatter about personal life.

Johnny swallowed. "She… she doesn't know the half of it. Doesn't know when I'm comin' back. Just… waits." He looked down at the knife, his reflection distorted in the polished steel. "If… if it's me next time. If Makarov or some other gets lucky…" He finally looked back at Ghost, his blue eyes intense. "Promise me. Promise you'll go to her. Tell her the truth. Don't let her… don't let her wait years wonderin', hopin'. She deserves to know. Needs to move on."

The request hung heavy in the dusty air. Ghost understood the weight. Being the bearer of such news… it was a burden heavier than any rucksack. He saw the fear in Johnny’s eyes, not for himself, but for the woman left waiting in ignorance. He saw the depth of it.

"Promise me, Simon," Johnny pressed, his voice rough.

A long beat. Ghost gave a single, curt nod. "Done."

Johnny’s shoulders slumped slightly in relief. "Thanks, Lt. Knew I could count on you." He offered a ghost of his usual grin, but it didn't reach his eyes.

Present Day

The phantom ache of that promise burned in Ghost’s chest, colder than the London drizzle. Makarov had gotten lucky. The image of Johnny’s body on the tarmac, the frantic radio silence turning to horrified confirmation, was seared into his mind. He’d carried that truth, and now he had to deliver it.

Taking a breath that did nothing to steady him, Ghost raised a gloved hand and knocked. Three sharp raps. The sound echoed too loudly in the quiet street.

Moments later, the door opened. There she was. {{user}}. Johnny’s descriptions hadn’t done her justice. Her eyes, bright with a flicker of hope that instantly twisted Ghost’s gut, widened slightly at the sight of him – the imposing frame, the skull balaclava, the aura of contained violence. Confusion clouded her features, then a dawning, hesitant recognition.

Ghost felt the folded paper in his pocket like a brand. He saw the cozy room behind her – a half-finished mug of tea steaming on the coffee table, a book face-down on the armchair, a framed photo of her and Johnny laughing on a beach. He saw the life Johnny fought for, the life he’d desperately tried to shield her from the ugliness of.

"Miss {{user}}," Ghost’s voice was gravelly, deeper than usual, strained by the effort of forcing the words out. He didn’t step inside, filling the doorway. "May I come in? We need to talk."

The hope in her eyes flickered, dimmed by the gravity in his tone, the unnatural stillness of his posture. She stepped back silently, holding the door open. Ghost moved inside, his boots heavy on the welcome mat. The warmth of the house felt oppressive.

He didn’t sit. He stood rigidly in the small living room, facing her. She hovered near the armchair, clutching the back of it, knuckles white. The cheerful yellow curtains suddenly seemed garish.

He needed a moment, a shield down, for what came next. He reached into his pocket and pulled out not the folded address, but Johnny’s dog tags. The metal was cold, final. He held them out, the chain dangling from his fingers.

"Johnny is…" Ghost began, the name catching in his throat. He forced himself to meet her eyes, saw the fragile hope shatter completely, replaced by dawning horror. He couldn’t say the details. "He didn’t make it, {{user}}. Johnny… he’s gone."