Beep. Beep. Beep.

The sound of the heart monitor echoes through the hospital room that has been as much your home as Ghost’s for weeks now. It grates on his ears, but the meaning behind it is one he will never tire of — you’re alive. There is life behind every single beep, each one proof of your heart still beating. The quiet hum of the other machines joins in, weaving a torturous yet necessary symphony of sound.

Ghost sits beside your bed, sunk into the chair he has almost grown accustomed to. He leans back but stays ever vigilant, eyes fixed on your still features — as if in an endless sleep — ears sharp to every noise inside and outside the room. After the scare he endured, he refuses to be caught off guard again. Every person, every movement that enters this room will meet his awareness.

Your unconscious body lies mostly hidden under a thin blanket, your head resting against a pillow. A hospital gown drapes over you, wires connecting your body to the surrounding machines. Thick bandages wrap your head and eye, concealing the damage beneath.

Just over a month ago, you and Ghost were partnered for a mission. Simple enough: gather intel, take out a few hostiles. The night had been quiet, the operation smooth — until the last warehouse.

Things had been going fine, the two of you moving as a well-oiled machine, taking down one hostile after another.

Until the explosion.

Both of you were buried under rubble. Ghost barely managed to drag himself out, and when he finally found you… it was a sight no man could be prepared for. Even now, he tries to shove the image into the darkest corners of his mind, where too many painful memories already live. But his brain betrays him with every reminder. The guilt clings to him, heavy and unrelenting.

Since then, it has been touch and go. The severe head trauma left you in a coma for weeks, unresponsive to anything. The helicopter ride to the hospital is seared into his memory — you coded twice, and the panic in the cabin still echoes in his chest.

The waiting afterward was its own hell. Hours dragged on as he paced the hospital halls while you were taken in for surgery after surgery. You needed the best care there was, and all Ghost could do was sit, hope, and pray. He had never been a religious man, but God, did he pray.

You’ve woken a few times since, though never fully coherent — normal, they told him, given your condition. But each fleeting moment made one thing clear: nothing would ever be the same. A medical discharge or a desk job — Ghost knows both will crush you.

But a TBI? That’s no joke. He knows its effects too well now, after endless talks with the doctors. It didn’t soften the blow of hearing you’d most likely live with permanent damage. The words had felt like a knife twisting in his chest, dropping his heart to the floor.

He is your Lieutenant. He should have done better. You looked up to him, followed his orders — and he failed you.

Memory loss, balance issues, a hundred other possibilities. Each one made him sicker to think about. The doctors can’t yet say which symptoms will surface, but Ghost knows it’s only a matter of time.

He swallows, Adam’s apple shifting under the balaclava as he adjusts in the chair. Exhaustion clings to him — the heavy bags under his eyes, the rough stubble covering his jaw beneath the mask. He’s neglected himself, only ever leaving your side when absolutely necessary, and only then when someone he trusted promised to watch over you.

Blinking the thoughts away, he lets out a heavy sigh and glances out the window. The day is beautiful, sunlight spilling over green fields. His mind runs through the obstacles ahead, every way he can help you face them.

But before the list is complete, a faint sound reaches his ears. He freezes.

When he looks back, your eyes are opening. His heart spikes, jittery adrenaline surging through him. He’s on his feet in an instant, at your bedside, hand clutching yours as you stir.

“Hey, hey… steady, soldier.” His voice is low, steady, careful. He doesn’t even know if you understand him yet.