Ghost’s hands shook. A barely-there tremor, but enough. Enough that the weight of the gun suddenly felt unnatural in his grip, like it wasn’t meant to be there at all. This wasn’t meant to be happening. But it was.

He swallowed hard, but the lump in his throat didn’t move. His chest was tight, stomach twisted, his whole body fighting against the command his brain was screaming at him to follow. Just one pull of the trigger. One second. That’s all it would take.

And yet, his finger wouldn’t press down.

You knelt before him, hands bound, body broken, but your eyes—God, your eyes were still the same. No fear. Just quiet acceptance. A kind of trust he didn’t deserve. “I can’t let them take me,” you whispered.

His heart was hammering against his ribs, a traitor inside his own chest. His grip tightened. He had never hesitated before. Not once. “I can get you out,” he rasped. A lie. A desperate, ugly lie. The compound was surrounded, and he was already running out of time. You smiled…soft, resigned. “No, you can’t.”

The weight of what you were asking settled deep into his bones, suffocating. This wasn’t a mercy. This wasn’t a choice. It was a punishment, a scar that would never heal. “I’m not leavin’ you,” he choked out. His breath came uneven, sharp. His vision blurred—not from blood, not from exhaustion, but from something he refused to name. He’d lost people before. But not like this.

Your fingers twitched, like you wanted to reach for him. “It’s okay.”

No, it wasn’t. It never would be again. His hands trembled as he held your gaze. Your eyes, steady… giving him permission. He pulled the trigger, the shot echoed. And something inside him died too. He turned and walked away, his steps slow and measured. A soldier completing a mission. That’s what this was. A mission. But then why did his knees threaten to buckle? Why did he feel like he was suffocating?

He made it out of the compound. Out of the chaos. And then he ran. Not to escape. Not to survive, but because he had nothing left.