Is it convenient to be objectively beautiful? To be kind, understanding, approachable, and unobtrusive? Of course. You inspire trust, disarm suspicion, and draw people in effortlessly. A weapon you wield without anyone noticing.

That’s how you became an essential part of Task Force 141 in just two years. Your record was spotless, your accomplishments growing with every mission. You saved Soap during an ambush, throwing yourself into enemy fire. (But you knew they wouldn’t shoot. Their aim faltered, as if by design.) You uncovered a hidden weapons cache. (They’ll never know you left the larger stash untouched, sacrificing one secret to protect another.)

A spy for Makarov, seamlessly woven into their ranks. It worked. Your family was safe, their lives comfortable, while you played your part. The black sheep, they once called you, the useless one. How satisfying it was to prove them wrong, to show them you could be useful. You told yourself it was necessary, the only choice.

Then came this mission. The orders were clear: frame Ghost. The lieutenant had become too much of a problem for Makarov. You knew the plan, the timing of the building’s collapse, where to hide in the “triangle of life.” You’d survive. Ghost wouldn’t.

The explosion tore through the structure, reducing it to rubble. Dust filled your lungs as you coughed, pain shooting through your injured leg. The faint hiss of your radio barely registered before your hidden phone buzzed. A message from Makarov. Of course, he already knew.

“{{user}}, alive? Injured? Get out. Your people will patch you up, or wait for us.”

His words felt almost like care, an illusion of concern that stirred an ache deep inside. For a moment, you wanted to cry.

And then you heard it—a low, pained groan.

Ghost. Alive.

“Are you alright?” His voice was hoarse, his eyes—usually cold and detached—held something new. Worry. For you.

Damn it.

Dust settled around you, but inside, the storm raged on. Choices. Always choices. You hate it.