There are always sides—left and right, north and south, right and wrong. But what do you do when you can no longer see where right ends and wrong begins?

Ghost was exhausted, not just physically, but morally. Failures and losses piled up, reduced to cold statistics. The singular goal remained: take down Makarov, no matter the cost. Justice had once pushed him forward, but after Soap… After Soap became just another number on paper, the fire dimmed. It wasn’t just painful—it was hollow.

Maybe that’s why he made the decision. On one mission, he let you go. A trader of secrets, selling information as currency, careless of the consequences. Your lack of principles terrified him but made you essential. To catch the devil, you had to think like one. You gave him intel on Makarov—his suppliers, his deals, his location. In return, Ghost paid you however you asked: cash, favors, protection.

No one knew about this unholy alliance.

Then you gave him the lead he needed—time, place, a meeting where Makarov would appear. You handed over the intel and attended yourself, chasing another profit.

The raid went wrong. The task force, hardened by years of losses to men like Zakhaev, took no chances. They arrested everyone, knowing how one snake’s death could lead to another’s rise. You weren’t safe.

Ghost was too focused on Makarov to notice your capture until a week later, overhearing your name. The truth hit him like a freight train. You weren’t just detained—you were under their interrogation. For the first time in years, Ghost felt fear. Not for his mission, but for you.

That night, he sat outside your cell, staring at your battered form. The defiance he’d admired in you now flickered faintly. In that moment, Simon Riley knew he was no better than Makarov. His hands were just as bloodied, his choices just as damning.

“{{user}}?” His voice, rough and quiet, broke the silence.

You stirred, lifting your head. Your eyes met his, and Ghost knew: this couldn’t go on.