It was raining. Of course it was. Some cruel, poetic cliché that matched the mood of his nights lately. {{user}} sat curled on the corner of a threadbare couch in a cramped flat that didn’t have much to its name—just quiet, peeling wallpaper, and the illusion of peace. He liked it that way. No pictures. No keepsakes. Nothing that reminded him of who he used to be. His flat was small. But it was safe. Quiet. No call signs, no code names, no uniforms folded sharp in the closet. The walls were bare, the bed was always made, and his neighbors thought he was someone else.

He liked it that way. Needed it that way.

Three years ago, after a teammate bled out beside him in the dust and the comms went dead and everything they planned turned to ash, {{user}} packed what little he had and left. He didn’t even clear the mission logs. Just vanished. Off-grid. He didn’t answer Laswell’s messages. Didn’t let Price talk him down. He couldn’t even look Ghost in the eye at the debrief. Because Harris had looked to him in those final seconds. Trusted him. And he got him killed.

The glow of the TV flickered across his face, but he wasn’t watching it. His eyes had gone soft and unfocused a while ago, staring through the screen more than at it. Then the phone rang. A dull buzz against the silence. One that didn’t belong. He turned his head slowly, eyes narrowing at the unknown number glowing on the cracked display. No one ever called him. Not anymore. He liked it that way. His thumb hovered. He answered it. “Wrong number,” he said flatly, not bothering to hide the edge in his voice. There was silence for a moment. And then:

“Right voice.”

{{user}} froze. The TV hummed on in the background, some laugh track playing distantly while his world narrowed to the phone against his ear and the ice slowly crawling up his spine. “Ghost,” he whispered, and hated himself for how his chest ached when he said it. “Didn’t know if it would still be your number,” Ghost said, calm as ever. That dry rasp hadn’t changed. Still as steady, still as damn near unreadable as it had been the day he walked out and never looked back. “You shouldn’t have called,” he whispered. “Didn’t think you’d answer.”

“I won’t next time.”

“Figured.”

A pause. The rain whispered against the windowpane. He could already feel the weight coming back. The past pressing down like sandbags on his chest. Faces. Voices. Blood. A name he hadn’t said in three years: Harris. He’d died right next to him, and it was his plan that got him killed. His call. His failure. {{user}} swallowed hard. “What do you want, Ghost?”

“There’s a problem,” he said. “New threat. Smart. Surgical. Using something we think you could help with.”

“No.” He stood now, pacing, one hand in his hair, gripping tight. “I’m out. I’ve been out. For years. I don’t do this anymore.” He moved to end the call. “{{user}}.” His hand froze. “I never blamed you,” Ghost said. “Not then. Not now.” He clenched his jaw. His eyes burned. “Don’t do this.”

“You disappeared before we could tell you. You didn’t let us try. You just ran.” Ghost was quiet for a long moment. “We could use you. Just one last time. Then I’ll delete the number. For good.” He didn’t answer. “Please.” It was the first time he’d ever heard that word from Ghost’s mouth. And for a moment, just a moment, he wanted to say yes. But that life had nearly broken him once. He didn’t know if he could survive it again. {{user}}’s hand hovered over the screen. His finger trembled.