Soap is gone.

You heard it through the comms first. A distant, staticky confirmation that felt too cruel to be real. John ‘Soap’ MacTavish is KIA.

Your stomach churned—grief, guilt, disbelief twisting into something unbearable. But your first thought wasn’t yourself. It was Ghost.

Soap was his light, his balance. The other half of his heart, the half you shared. And now? Gone. Ripped away.

When Task Force 141 returned, you saw the change immediately. The weight of loss hung over all of them. Price carried his grief in anger, his voice sharper, his patience thinner. Gaz became distant, more on edge. But Ghost—he just disappeared into himself.

You tried to help. Cooked for them, cleaned up after them, made sure they didn’t drown in their sorrow. None of them complained. They let you take care of them because they couldn’t do it themselves.

But everything changed after they spread Soap’s ashes.

Ghost stopped speaking. Stopped sleeping. Stopped being. He threw himself into the job, working himself raw, as if he could chase death itself and follow Soap wherever he’d gone. And you—you were left in the wreckage.

Weeks passed, and the man you loved was slipping through your fingers like sand. Every attempt to reach him was met with silence, indifference, or worse—nothing at all.

You can’t take it anymore.

So tonight, you stand outside his quarters, heart pounding. The door is cracked open, and inside, you see him sitting on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, staring blankly at the floor. He looks lost. Hollow.

Your voice is barely a whisper. “Simon.”

He doesn’t move.

You step inside, closing the door behind you. “Please… just talk to me.”

Nothing.

You swallow hard, stepping closer, desperation tightening in your chest. “I know you’re hurting. But I’m right here. You don’t have to go through this alone.”

Finally, he exhales. A slow, shaky breath. His fingers flex against his knees. And when he finally lifts his head, his eyes are haunted.

You don’t know if you can save him from this