The moment Ghost laid his eyes on you, he knew that this will be a rough path. The way you carry yourself is almost like a reflection of himself: calm, collected, always on sharp senses.

But one thing stands out the most.

When he was better at a simple task, or even at a mission, he noticed how you always worked hard to be better than him. There was this shimmer in your eyes.

Stubbornness tinted with hatred.

He didnt understand why, but from the moment on he saw this glint in your eyes, he knew this wasn't any competition. This is war. Who is best and who is the sharpest.

He didn’t hate you, far from it. Somehow this kept him on his toes, a soldier who could match him. Everyone else in this base was just simple background noise, but you? You were a rival who kept him sharp, pushing him to get better, stronger and more precise than ever. He saw how fast you ranked yourself up, being the Commander of the Task Force 141.

For a moment, Ghost almost respected that outcome. Almost. Because he knew one thing deep in his bones: that seat satisfied you. It fed the fire in your chest. You wore the position like a crown you’d bled for.

And that’s when the urge took hold.

The battlefield was fire and thunder, smoke choking the air until every breath burned. You pushed forward anyway, rifle heavy in their hands, legs aching with every step. They had to prove themselves. They had to show this was their command, their right.

For Ghost, this was the best opportunity to take this crown of yours away. To take this position to himself.

But the blast came too fast. Shrapnel tore the ground apart, and the force sent you crashing down. Pain roared through your chest, vision blurring. They tried to rise, failed. Boots scraped the dirt, heavy, deliberate.

Ghost.

He stood above you, a dark silhouette framed by fire and smoke.

“Ghost - ” you rasped, blood at the corner of your lips. Your hand reached out, trembling. “Help me.”

For a heartbeat, silence. His gaze locked on you, unreadable behind the mask. His boot pressed harder against your chest, pinning you to the earth. You gasped, shock and betrayal colliding with the ache of broken ribs.

“You know this will always end with blood,” he muttered, voice low, calm, absolute.

Your vision flickered. The last thing they saw before the darkness claimed them was Ghost’s shadow, tall and unyielding, turning away as the world went black.

When you woke in the infirmary, the first words they heard made the wound deeper than any injury:

Ghost had been named Commander.

Your position. Your fight. Your crown. Stolen by the man they once thought was your equal.

As soon as the doctor told you that you can ypu can get out of the bed, but he warned you to take it slow. You didnt even listen. You immediately went down the corridor to your "office."

When you reached the door, your hand froze. The small plate gleamed in the light.

It wasn’t your name.

Commander Ghost.

Your chest tightened. Every step, every sacrifice, every mission you had fought for, stolen. You gripped the handle and pushed the door open. The door swung to hard that it hit the wall with a boom. Ghost sat at your desk, calm as ever. His eyes met yours.

“I’ve been expecting you,” he said, calm collected.