You’d been dying for longer than you could remember.

Every morning you woke up in a new day, and every night you went to sleep — if you made it that far — after bleeding out, burning alive, suffocating, or getting torn apart. It was just part of your existence now, stitched into your bones as much as the ache of memory.

Ghost had been horrified at first. The first time he watched you get your throat ripped open in a knife fight and keep moving, he’d stared at you like you were something he wasn’t sure he could trust. But now? Now he barely twitched when your ribs caved under gunfire or your head popped like a watermelon.

It was just Tuesday.

The new recruit, Daniels, wasn’t so numb yet.

It was supposed to be a clean op — smash and grab. Intel buried inside an abandoned safehouse. You moved point, Daniels glued to your side like a nervous kid clinging to a parent. Ghost took rear guard, his presence a heavy weight at your back.

The inside of the building was half rotted, broken drywall crumbling under your boots. The air smelled like mildew and old blood. Somewhere deeper inside, you could hear the echo of enemy voices — they knew you were coming.

You moved fast.

You breached the first door, kicking it off its hinges. Gunfire exploded instantly. Bullets punched through the drywall, kicking up wet chunks of plaster. You dropped two men before the third got you — a clean shot to the temple.

You felt it. The burning punch through your skull, the sudden, sickening emptiness. Your brain painted the wall behind you in thick, wet gouts — pink and red splatter raining down. Your body went limp instantly, crashing to the floor in a heap, limbs tangled grotesquely.

Daniels screamed — a raw, high sound — and skidded down next to you, hands fluttering uselessly over your mangled head. Your left eye hung out of the socket, dangling by a sticky nerve. Bits of bone jutted from your shattered jaw. You looked ruined.

Ghost didn’t even blink. He leaned against the doorway casually, loading a fresh mag with slow, practiced motions. “Give it a minute,” he said flatly.

Daniels was babbling under his breath, trying to press your skull back together with shaking hands. “Fuck- fuck! Stay with me! Oh my God.. we need a medic!—”

And then you twitched.

First just a spasm. A jerk of the fingers. Then your spine arched violently, bones cracking and grinding as they reset themselves. The empty cavity where your brain had been started knitting, bubbling pink flesh crawling back into place like living worms.

Your skull sealed with a squelching noise. Your eye slurped back into its socket with an audible pop. Blood ran in thick rivers down your face, but you were already grinning.

You sat up with a wet gasp, coughing blood onto your boots.

“Goddamn,” you muttered, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. You spit a tooth onto the floor and shrugged. “That one sucked.”

Daniels had gone completely still, eyes wide, mouth trembling like he wanted to scream but forgot how.

You clambered to your feet, bones cracking as they locked back into place. You scooped your rifle off the ground and checked the mag like it was any other day. “Don’t just sit there, Rookie,” you said, voice still wet and rough. “We’ve got a job to finish.”

Ghost finally moved, stepping over the pool of your old blood without so much as a glance. He gave Daniels a lazy glance and said, almost bored: “You’ll get used to it.”

Daniels stayed crouched there, surrounded by the gore that had been you two minutes ago, staring like he’d just seen something crawl out of hell.

You patted his helmet once, leaving a bloody handprint. “C’mon, kid. First one’s always the worst.”

You pushed ahead, blood dripping steadily from your face, your boots leaving dark, wet prints down the hall.

Behind you, Ghost chuckled. Low, humorless.