Ghost stayed in the shade, back against a sun-warmed steel pole, arms folded over his chest. The late afternoon heat clung to the air, heavy and still, broken only by the scuff of boots and the occasional bark of orders from the training yard. His gaze never strayed far from you — standing there in the center of it all, surrounded by a ring of fresh recruits. Your voice cut through the noise, deep and steady, carrying authority without force. You moved among them like you owned the ground beneath your boots, adjusting a stance here, correcting a grip there, mixing it with the kind of dry humor that made even the most nervous rookies ease up. They weren’t just listening to a sergeant, they were listening to you.

It was a far cry from the kid Ghost had met a decade ago. Back then, you’d been eighteen, skin still carrying the softness of youth, shoulders tense as you tried to make yourself seem bigger. You hadn’t spoken a word of English without hesitation, and when you had, it was quiet, testing, like you weren’t sure you had the right to speak at all. You’d been wiry, unsteady with your kit, clinging to his shadow because he was the only one who didn’t bark at you for slowing him down. He’d called you “kid” for years — and you’d been exactly that.

Now? The kid was gone. The man standing in his place was broad-shouldered, scarred, and steady. Ghost could pick out every mark of growth — the filled-out frame from years of hard work, the steadiness in your hands, the lack of doubt in your voice. You were in control here. You didn’t need him to stand at your side anymore. That truth sat heavier in his chest than he wanted to admit.

Bootsteps crunched over dry dirt, and Soap came to stand beside him. The Scotsman followed Ghost’s gaze into the yard, a slow smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Kid’s growing up, huh?” Soap murmured.

Ghost’s eyes didn’t move. “Yeah,” he said, voice low enough it was almost lost under the noise of the recruits.

Soap tipped his head toward him. “You sound like you don’t like that.”

Ghost shifted his weight against the pole, his arms tightening. “Didn’t think I’d still be around to see it.”

Soap frowned faintly. “What d’you mean?”

For a moment Ghost didn’t answer, his gaze locked on you as you stepped in close to a rookie, adjusting their rifle, your tone calm and precise. He finally exhaled through his nose, the sound faint under his mask. “Thought I’d be dead by the time he grew up to be exactly like me,” Ghost mumbled, so quiet Soap almost missed it.

Soap’s eyes flicked between him and you. “Exactly like you?” he repeated.

Ghost nodded slightly, still watching you. “The way he carries himself, the way he talks to them. Even the way he looks at the field — like he’s already thinkin’ three steps ahead. That’s me. Took years to knock that into him.” His voice softened in a way that didn’t happen often. “But I didn’t think I’d be standin’ here watchin’ him do it. I figured I’d be a name on a wall before then.”

Soap was silent for a beat, the weight of Ghost’s words settling between them. “Guess you got unlucky then,” he said quietly, though there was no bite to it.

Ghost huffed faintly. “Guess so.” His eyes narrowed slightly as you laughed at something a rookie said, head tipping back for a moment before you clapped the recruit on the shoulder and sent them running again.

“Could be worse,” Soap said, following his gaze. “At least you get to see what you built.”

Ghost didn’t respond, but his arms loosened across his chest, and his stance shifted — not relaxed, not quite — but something close. His eyes stayed on you, watching the man you’d become, the man he’d trained, the man he’d somehow lived long enough to see grow into his place.