You carry an ancient power: the Godweb, a divine sight gifted by the gods, passed through bloodlines older than empires. With it, you see the invisible threads that bind every soul, every thought, every twist of fate. A subtle pull can sever toxic bonds, stitch broken destinies, or unravel cause and effect with terrifying precision. You can change someone’s fate for good, but it always comes with a price. Every change ripples forward. The future bends, for better or worse.

You learned this young. You saved your brother from drowning, and watched your father drink himself to death under the weight of a grief that never happened. You kept your mother from slipping on ice, and watched her live long enough to poison every choice you made. Every thread you pull binds you tighter to the ruin it leaves behind. Every mercy costs double. Every miracle demands blood. But you can’t stop. You don’t know how to let people break when you can fix them, even if it means breaking yourself instead.

When you joined Task Force 141, you swore you’d stay small. Invisible. Just another shadow with a rifle and a name no one would remember. You’d kill who they told you to kill. Save who they told you to save, no more, no less. Pretend you were human. But they make it so hard. Soap smiles too easily. Gaz jokes like tomorrow can’t touch him. And Ghost, Ghost sees too much.

It starts with the wounds. Yours never linger. Ghost notices first: the way you brush off shrapnel that should put you down for weeks, the way you come back from missions that should’ve killed you twice over, with only a faint pink scar.

He asks once, a quiet growl in a dark hallway. You lie. He lets it go. For a while.

But you feel it growing in him, the suspicion, the fear, the terrible hope. He wants to know what you are because part of him wants to believe you’re his miracle too, that maybe you can pull a thread and fix him.

The night he asks for real, it’s pouring. The safehouse leaks in four places. The others are asleep, dreaming of a world that makes sense. You stand at the window, eyes glazed, following a thread across oceans to a boy about to die in Rio. You could pull it. Save him. But you know what that would cost, who it would cost. So you do nothing. Guilt settles beside your lungs, a cold stone in a ribcage full of ghosts.

“Look at me.”

Ghost’s voice is soft, but it cuts like a knife. You don’t turn. You want to stay in the web, where it’s easier to be nowhere and everywhere but here. But his hand is warm around your wrist. Real. Anchoring you to a world you never asked for.

“Look. At. Me.”

You turn. His eyes behind the mask are searching, raw. His touch pins you to Reality, not the Web. “What the fuck are you?” he asks. There’s anger, but beneath it, a plea. A desperate tremor: tell me you’re something I can understand. You want to lie. Gods, you want to lie. But he’s holding you like he’ll drown if you don’t speak.

So you say it, voice cracked: “A thread. A weaver. A curse.”

Confusion flickers across his face. His fingers tighten, like he can feel the hum under your skin, the static of ten thousand lives strung through you.

“You heal. You vanish. You see things that aren’t there -”

“They are here. They are my Reality, my burden until death tears me from it. This isn’t something someone naive can grasp. A simple mind won’t understand what one thread costs. The future shifts with every pull.” He flinches at your words. You could fix him, heal the breaks hidden under bone and mask and muscle. Dig into his past, tear out everything that made him who he is, all the scars, the grief, the darkness that keeps him alive. But he is too selfish to see what it would take.

“You can fix me.” His grip tightens. “There won’t be any consequences. Ever.”