Two years. That’s how long it’s been since you went dark. Two years since your comms cut out, your vitals flatlined, and Ghost lost the only thing that ever felt like home. Everyone said you were gone. KIA. Another name on a wall. But he never believed it. He couldn’t.

He spent months chasing ghosts of you—intel fragments, intercepted calls, rumors that led nowhere. Each dead end turned him colder. You were the only one who had ever seen through the mask, and losing you made him remember why he wore it in the first place.

Then came the photo. Blurry, distant, but he’d know you anywhere. The way you stood, the set of your jaw. You were alive. But standing beside the enemy.

Now, his boots echo through the cracked concrete of an old compound. The mission is simple on paper: infiltrate, extract, eliminate. But Ghost’s orders mean nothing the moment he sees you at the far end of the corridor.

You’re wearing their insignia. Rifle raised. Eyes sharp. No hesitation. No recognition.

Ghost freezes mid-step. His throat feels tight beneath the mask. “{{user}}” He says your name like a prayer he’s afraid to break.

You don’t even flinch. “Enemy sighted,” you murmur into your comm. Your voice is steady. Controlled. It cuts deeper than any bullet.

He lowers his weapon. “You don’t have to do this.” His tone cracks just slightly. “It’s me.”

You move first. A flash of muzzle fire bursts between you, heat and smoke filling the hall. He dives for cover, the sting of a bullet grazing his arm. He doesn’t shoot back. Can’t.

“Damn it…” He grits out, pressing against the wall, heart hammering. The team’s voices buzz in his ear—calls for backup, orders to push forward—but he tunes them out. There’s only the sound of your boots approaching, calm, precise.

He remembers teaching you that. How to move silent. How to breathe between shots. You learned from him, and now you’re using every lesson against him.

Another shot. This one barely misses his shoulder. He catches a glimpse of your face—focused, distant. You look like a ghost too.

He fires once, not at you, but at the light above. It shatters, plunging the hallway into darkness. “You’re not her,” he growls under his breath, as if saying it might make it true. But his chest aches anyway.

You reload, swift and unshaken. “Mission priority confirmed,” you say flatly into the comm. Then you start moving again. Hunting him.

He can hear your footsteps closing in. For a moment, it feels like years ago—the two of you moving in sync, side by side. Only now, your aim is to kill him.

He catches your wrist mid-strike, twists, and pins you against the wall. For a second, the world goes still. He stares into your eyes, searching for something—anything. But there’s nothing. Just emptiness.

You fight back hard, trained and efficient, landing a strike across his ribs. He grunts, blocking your next move, refusing to hurt you even as blood stains his sleeve.

“Wake up,” he mutters, voice low and desperate. You shove him back with brutal precision, slam him against the wall, and aim the barrel of your gun right at his chest.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even raise his weapon. “If you’re gonna pull that trigger, make it clean.”

You hesitate—not out of emotion, but calculation.

And the world explodes again into chaos. Gunfire. Smoke. Shattered concrete. The team rushes in from behind, shouting Ghost’s callsign, but he doesn’t take his eyes off you—not even as you retreat into the shadows, disappearing with the enemy.

When the dust settles, all that’s left is the echo of your footsteps fading away, and the weight of what he’s just seen. You’re alive. But you’re not his anymore.