I’ve Got A Taste For Blood

by Hsecs_95

Summary:

They were never meant to meet like this. Not in the blood-soaked backstreets of a city no one would dare name, not with a knife between them and bodies cooling nearby. But fate doesn’t ask permission, only leaves wreckage.

Soap’s mission was simple: locate the hunter and bring him in alive. He didn’t expect it to be The Ghost. Didn’t expect the legend to bleed. Didn’t expect to care. Definitely didn’t expect to like it.

Chapter 1: Ghost

Unknown Coordinates, 01:00 AM

The night was cold, the wind carving its way through the empty streets like a ghostly predator. Overhead, the moon loomed high, casting an eerie glow over the streets below. The air was thick, as if the world itself were holding its breath in anticipation of something dreadful. The streets were barren, stripped of life and sound, as if humanity had long abandoned them to the encroaching darkness.

Ghost stood motionless, a shadow blending seamlessly into the void. The cold that cut to the bone didn't seem to bother him, it was an old companion, familiar and comforting. This tension, this electrified stillness in the air, felt more like home to him than any warm hearth ever could.

But tonight, the cold faded into the background, drowned out by the surging adrenaline coursing through his veins. It was an intoxicating rush, a pulse-pounding elixir he craved, more potent than any drug. The success of the mission was irrelevant, what mattered was the now. Every detail anchored him in the moment: the whispering wind that tugged at his tactical gear, the icy bite of the night air, and the muffled sounds from the house framed perfectly in the crosshairs of his rifle.

He had a target tonight. A life hung in the balance, and his orders were clear: shoot to kill. No mercy, no hesitation. The house stood silent before him, its secrets laid bare in the sights of his weapon. His finger rested lightly on the trigger, steady and patient to complete those orders.

It had been three long weeks since Ghost had last settled behind the comforting weight of his scope. Now, as he crouched in the shadows, he could feel the anticipation simmering just beneath his skin, a palpable energy that flowed down to the very tips of his fingers. His hand rested lightly on the trigger, fingertips brushing it in slow, measured strokes, not out of nervousness, but from a quiet impatience. 

This was a game of patience, and Ghost was a master of it. Hunting required more than precision, it demanded a delicate dance between stillness and action. Move too soon, and you’d lose it all; hesitate, and the moment would pass forever. So he watched, unblinking, his senses honed to a razor’s edge. Every shadow, every shift in the wind was a potential signal. He waited and waited, as though time itself were bending to his will.

Minutes stretched endlessly, each one taut with nerve-wracking tension, until a flicker of movement at the edge of his vision caught Ghost’s attention. It was subtle, so faint that only eyes sharpened by countless hunts could have detected it. His brown eyes tracked the source, and there he saw it: a man slipping silently out of the house, his movements steady.

Behind him followed the target, lured out just as planned. The man had done his part, and now it was Ghost’s turn to finish what they had started. This was his domain, the shadows, the silent strike. Like a phantom, he would slip in, deliver death, and vanish, leaving nothing behind but a river of blood that led nowhere.

His fingers tightened on the trigger with precision born of habit, the motion seamless, almost automatic. His gaze locked through the sight, and time seemed to warp, the seconds stretching into an eternity. In that instant, he became something twisted… judge, jury, executioner. With a deep breath, steady as a predator before the pounce, he made his choice. The crack of the rifle shattered the stillness, the bullet slicing through the cold night air with merciless intent. The target fell, the sound of impact echoing faintly in Ghost’s ears. It was done. Innocent or not, Ghost knew the shadows always claimed their price.

In precisely thirty-one seconds, Ghost dismantled his gear with practiced efficiency, his movements swift. As he stood, his knees protested with a dull ache, a reminder of the hours spent crouched in the cold. He stretched briefly, easing the tension in his stiff muscles, before tilting his head back to gaze at the vast, inky sky above. A deep sigh escaped his lips, blocked by his face mask.

The mission was over. The brief escape it had offered, the singular focus that dulled the edges of his reality, was slipping away. Soon, the weight of the life he couldn’t outrun would settle on his shoulders again, heavy and unrelenting.

But even this escape had been far from comforting. Nothing in his life ever was. Becoming a soldier, the choice that had defined and destroyed him, was a contradiction he could never reconcile. It was his deepest regret, the decision that had stolen so much from him. And yet, it was also his most favored weapon, a weapon he wielded against himself with ruthless precision.

He stood there for a moment longer, letting the bitter air bite at his skin as if to remind him he was still alive. The night sky offered no solace, no answers, just an endless void. Ghost didn’t expect comfort from the stars, they had never cared before, and they wouldn’t start now.

Shaking himself free from the creeping weight of his thoughts, he turned his focus back to the task at hand. He had to move. Lingering wasn’t an option; it never was. Ghost was good at leaving places behind, at erasing himself from the scene, but no matter how clean the exit, he could never escape the pieces of himself he left scattered along the way.

As he began his descent to the extraction point, the rhythm of his boots against the ground was the only sound accompanying him. Each step felt heavier than the last, not from exhaustion but from the quiet realization that the momentary clarity of the hunt was gone. Somewhere deep down, he knew he could stop this cycle, walk away, leave the missions, the blood, and the shadows behind. But what would be left of him then? The hunts gave him a purpose, a reason to keep moving forward. Without them, he feared he’d die, swallowed by the void he carried within.

The extraction point came into view, a faint glimmer of light in the distance. Ghost adjusted the strap of his gear bag, squaring his shoulders as if bracing himself. He had made his choice long ago, and tonight was just another chapter in a story that felt like it had no end.

The extraction vehicle was waiting, a dark silhouette against the faint glow of the horizon. Ghost approached silently, his boots crunching softly on the gravel as he moved. He didn’t need words to announce his arrival, the man nodded once and unlocked the passenger door open. Ghost slipped inside without hesitation, the faint creak of the door the only sound breaking the stillness.

As the vehicle rumbled to life, Ghost leaned back against the worn seat, his gear bag settled at his feet. The tension in his muscles eased slightly, but his mind remained restless. The hum of the engine filled the cabin, a low, constant reminder of the miles he was putting between himself and the scene he’d left behind.

He stared out the window, the landscape slipping by in a blur of darkness and faint outlines. Ghost wasn’t looking for anything specific, just staring, as if the passing world might offer some sense of clarity. “Clean job tonight,” the man said, breaking the silence. His voice was calm, matter-of-fact. Ghost didn’t respond right away. What was there to say? Instead, he gave a curt nod, his gaze still fixed on the window. The man didn’t press further. 

As the vehicle sped on, Ghost allowed himself to close his eyes, just for a moment. Sleep wouldn’t come but he let the darkness behind his eyelids swallow him for a while. It was the only peace he could allow himself, fleeting and shallow as it was.

The road stretched on, and Ghost thought about what awaited him at the end of it. His normal routine, the nightmares, the cold, the indifference of it all. And then… nothing. Just the emptiness until the next hunt called him back into the shadows.

And he would answer. He always did.

Blackmere, England, 20:08 PM

The predatory and curious eyes never bothered him. He was not a prey, not to them or to anyone who dared to catch a glimpse at his skull mask. He had sewn it himself, a symbol that Simon Riley was gone, and all that remained was The Ghost, the monster hiding behind the dead. One who hunted his enemies, and sometimes, on colder nights, himself. He walked into the bar after the successful hunt, he didn't bother to glance at anyone who looked too much for his taste, he was too bloody tired for that. His heavy lids remained low, the brown in his iris dark, frozen and hiding a million things that no one dared to decipher. 

The Stoker’s was a known territory for monsters like him. Its dark exterior and grim sign didn’t scare off hunters, they attracted them. Every night, a strange but sensible crowd filtered through its doors, bounty hunters from across town, hungry for work. Some were desperate strays chasing scraps. Others, like Ghost, had been around long enough to see the Stoker’s for what it truly was, a drug. No one kept coming back to this place for the pretty half-naked dancers or the smooth liquor. Junkies like Ghost came back for what lived beneath the bar’s surface. A Jury handing out lives like poker chips to killers, turning justice into a bloodsport. Life or death. Mostly death.

Only one powerful man dictated whose head was bound to fall, he sat like a grandmaster at the edge of a bloodstained chessboard, unveiling new names each week like trophies. Every name he dropped onto the board wasn’t a target, it was a sacrifice, a pawn pushed forward to provoke chaos, to open lanes for something darker. Ghost always figured the man wasn't chasing justice or coin. He was chasing something else, watching how the hunters moved, who survived, who bent, who broke. To him, the Stoker’s wasn’t a bar, it was a laboratory, a killing floor dressed up in neon and liquor.

Ghost made his way through the bar, each step making him closer to the next hunt, the next high, he could almost feel his lungs opening, ready to be filled with oxygen, ready to leave the suffocating depths of his own mind. Yet each step left him lightheaded with guilt. He felt undeserving of such relief, not with all the blood he was about to spill, the innocent lives he would shatter, and the haunting screams that would echoe in his mind every. bloody. night.

He slid onto the corner stool, far from the door, near the shadows. Always near the shadows. The pretty bartender didn’t speak, didn’t even try to flirt for a chance to win a tip, just poured. A courtesy for a man like him, known but unwelcomed. Rumors traveled faster than the mail in Blackmere, and Ghost’s reputation had knocked on the bar long before he ever walked through that battered door. He didn’t drink the brown liquor, though its smell spoke to him softly, the glass stayed untouched. His hand hovered near it once, twice, then lowered. He wasn't here to indulge, he wanted something else.

From the corner of his eye, Ghost caught sight of the grandmaster, The Broker, they called him, sitting surrounded by his usual crowd. His sharp gaze flicked across the room, calculating, marking the players on his chessboard. Tonight, his lips curled into something twisted like a smile. That meant a new game was about to begin. The Broker’s slender fingers tapped a silent rhythm on the edge of his table. Ghost felt the weight of that motion before he consciously registered it. It didn’t take long for their eyes to meet, cold steel against calculating amber, and the nod that followed was both command and accolade. Ghost rose from the shadows, his boots whispering across the worn floorboards. Every bounty hunter knew this moment: the summons that meant you’d earned the right to stand before the man who dealt death with the flick of a pen.

Ghost halted at The Broker’s table. The circle of onlookers fell silent, their gazes burning with curiosity and envy. Ghost ignored their gazes, only having eyes for the man before him, a staring contest of sorts was held, funny how Ghost’s shark gaze matched perfectly with the man haunting grey sea. “You look tired,” The Broker said, tone smooth like a liquor twirling too often. Ghost said nothing, he kept staring, in response The Broker smirked. “Good. Means you’re ready.” 

A sealed folder slid across the table between them. Ghost stared at it. No names yet, but the weight of it was unmistakable. He didn’t reach for it right away, his fingers twitched near the edge, pausing just before the touch. There was always that moment, tiny, quiet, where he still had the choice to walk away. But he never did. “You’ll want to read this one,” the Broker added, crossing his arms, his voice low, conspiratorial. “Not your usual filth. No warlords, no traffickers. This one’s a soldier. Clean record.” Ghost’s eyes flicked upward. A beat of silence passed between them. The Broker didn’t blink. 

“Military asset,” Ghost said finally. His voice was low, hoarse, like he hasn’t used it for long. 

The Broker shrugged. “Yes, Price is a Former asset. Independent now. Operates outside oversight. Contractors aren’t pleased. Word is, he’s poking too many nests. Making enemies in all the right places.”

Ghost stared at the folder. A thousand thoughts swirled behind the quiet. He didn’t care about politics. He didn’t care about oversight. Ghost wasn’t here for justice. He was here for silence for his mind, for peace. And sometimes, peace came at the end of a loaded barrel. He reached for the file.

“I’m not in the business of killing good men,” he muttered.

“Good men don’t live long,” The Broker replied, eyes almost kind. “And neither do ghosts. Sooner or later, someone will come for you. This just evens the scale.” He then named his price, Ghost only half listened, the pay was always good, but the nightmares? They came free.

---

Three Days Later

North of Almareth City, 07:00 PM

The engine of the dirt bike whined low under him, its sound swallowed by the thick pine forest that strangled the narrow path. Ghost leaned into the turn, his frame shifting easily with the bike, the cold air slashing at him. The city ahead, Almareth, was a myth whispered between mercenaries. An abandoned war-zone, collapsed years ago under foreign occupation, now nothing more than a graveyard of steel and shattered stone.

According to the intel, Captain Price and his task force was somewhere situated there. What they were doing there, Ghost didn’t know. Didn’t care. He’d decided not to think too hard about it. He needed the job. Needed to hunt. It didn’t matter that something about it felt… wrong. 

The bike gave out before the thought finished forming. A sharp crack split the air, then smoke. Ghost threw himself off just as the engine hissed and died, the bike collapsing into the frostbitten earth. A warning shot. 

The dirt bike lay in the frostbitten mud behind him, its engine coughing out its last breath before falling silent for good. Smoke curled up from the engine, a clean shot straight through the cylinder block. Ghost stood over it for a moment, expression unreadable behind the mask, brown eyes fixed on the still-rising steam. A message had been sent. Whoever fired that round had precision, balls, and delivered a clear warning.

He slid his rifle off his back, scanning the treeline in one slow arc. Nothing but shadows and birdsong. Whoever had taken the shot was long gone, or was watching him still. Either way, it meant one thing: the hunt had started early.

His boots sank slightly into the damp earth as he started moving. The pine forest thinned the deeper he pushed, branches clawing at his shoulders, the silence thick and pressing. He moved like a ghost, silent, methodical, tracking faint paths carved by boots and old tires. The city loomed just ahead, its outline jagged and broken, silhouetted against the creeping sunset like a wounded animal baring its ribs.

Buildings stood like skeletons, their windows empty sockets, paint stripped by years of war and weather. Burnt-out vehicles littered the streets, some crushed by airstrikes, others ruined with bullet holes. Graffiti in a dozen languages covered the walls, warnings, names of the dead, and angry slogans from long-dead militias. Almareth was dead, he knew, but it hadn’t stopped bleeding.

He crossed an overpass and spotted the first body. Fresh and slumped against the concrete barrier, throat slit, eyes glassy. A warning sign, and not for him. This was a territory kill. Someone had crossed a line. Ghost knelt briefly, fingers brushing over the man’s tactical vest. Civilian gear. Radio still warm, so he grabbed it. He rose slowly, eyes scanning the rooftops, the broken windows, the shadows beyond the alleys. It was quiet, too quiet, the kind of quiet that only existed when predators circled each other in the dark. Ghost didn’t need to hear footsteps to know he wasn’t alone. The air told him, the scent of sweat and smoke, barely-there reaching his nostrils. Something moved. And then he saw it. 

Just ahead, across the crumbling plaza, a flicker of motion, a silhouette slipping behind the remains of a shattered doorway. Not military. Not one of Price’s. The gait was wrong. A scout maybe. Or bait. He stayed low, moving in a wide arc through the husk of what had once been a toy store, glass crunching beneath his boots despite all his care. Dust and ash clung to the shelves, frozen in time. A child’s doll lay face-down on the counter, scorched and one-eyed. Ghost didn’t look at it long.

A shot rang out,closer this time. Not at him. Somewhere northeast. A rifle, suppressed. Different caliber. Not the same shooter who hit his bike. Which meant there were at least two players on the board now. One had marked his entrance. The other hadn’t. Ghost ducked into cover behind a rusting delivery van, checking the sight lines, recalculating. If Price was here, someone else had already found him, or was trying to. And whoever they were, they were bold enough to fire shots without even knowing if they’d hit the right target.

He tapped the radio, but it was Static, dead. Either jammed or blocked by the thick concrete remains around him. He was flying blind.. A whistle cut through the air. Low. Two tones. Not natural. Ghost stilled. That was old military, not recent task force, not bounty hunter code. It was personal, one of those forgotten whistles used back in the dirtiest corners of the world. Black-ops in ghost towns. Shadow work.

Then came the echo, another whistle, a reply, from further east. A trap? Maybe. But it didn’t feel like one. It felt like a message. Ghost moved. Down through a collapsed building, boots echoing softly off half-submerged tile. The city’s underground had become a maze of trenches and half-built fallout shelters. He passed through graffiti-covered bunkers, half-buried body bags, the skeletal remains of old alliances. All of it smelled of blood and old gasoline.

Ghost moved deeper, past the rot and rust, where even light didn’t dare follow. Down here, in the guts of a forgotten war-zone, the dead didn’t sleep and the walls remembered screams. Every footstep echoed like a threat, every corner whispered a warning. But Ghost didn’t flinch. He’d long made peace with the idea that he belonged to places like this. Cities that bled. Structures too broken to stand, too stubborn to fall. Like him.

The eastern tunnels curved, sloped slightly downward. He advanced slowly, rifle tight in his grip, finger brushing the trigger with the same reverence others gave to prayer beads. Another whistle came, closer now. It wasn’t bait. It was a summons. A test. Or maybe, a greeting. Ghost didn’t answer. He never had much use for words, and even less for trust.

The tunnels opened into a hollowed-out station platform, trains long since rusted to their rails, the glass of the ticket booths shattered and blackened with age. He paused, scanning the platform. Faint bootprints in the dust. New, heavy and military, not rushing, but moving with intent. One set, then two. Price’s? Maybe. But one detail caught his eye. A heel drag. A limp. Wounded.

Ghost crouched, pressing two fingers to the marks like reading Braille from the ground. Not long ago. Maybe ten minutes. Still warm. Still close. He followed them, moving along the curved platform wall, past a collapsed vending machine and a rotting bench half-covered in mold. Then came the whisper. Not in his ear, but in his instincts, the old, primal kind that screamed when eyes were on you. He froze.

A flick of movement, up high he saw a balcony ledge, on the left side. A flash of a barrel. Ghost fired once, twice. The shooter dropped, crumpling against the railing like a discarded puppet. The sound of his fall echoed into the hollow belly of the city. Ghost didn’t move toward the body. He reloaded his gun, knees crouched lightly and advanced. 

Thirty minutes had passed since the last shot echoed through the crumbling streets, and still, no sign of movement. No silhouettes in windows. No rustle of gravel under boots. Just the wind, low and mean, threading through the hollow shells of buildings. Ghost kept his rifle up for another moment, eyes scanning the broken skyline. But the silence felt real now. He let out a slow breath and finally eased his shoulders. He straightened up, bones cracking slightly beneath his gear, and surveyed the street again. Nothing but decay. 

Overhead, the clouds were bruising darker by the minute, curling into one another like a storm brewing just for him. The wind had picked up too, sweeping dust and loose paper across the cracked pavement. It carried the smell of rain, sharp and earthy, mixing with the scent of the city. He started walking again, careful but not urgent. Every step through the dead city felt like walking through memory: empty storefronts, broken streetlights, a swing set in a park creaking on a single chain. Each corner he turned revealed more ruins, more reminders of a life that used to be here. Ghost ignored them. He kept his pace steady and his eyes alert. Ten more minutes of wandering through the skeletons of civilization, and then he saw it. At the edge of a neighborhood long forgotten, past a stretch of collapsed fencing and a row of sun-bleached mailboxes, stood a small farmhouse. Weather-beaten, but intact. One story, faded white paint, green shutters still hanging on by rusted hinges. The porch sagged to one side, and the roof was missing a few shingles, but it was standing, and that was enough.

Ghost approached through a yard overrun with waist-high weeds and wild thorns. Each step crunched and rustled underfoot. The windows were intact but coated with a thick film of dirt. He didn’t trust what he couldn’t see, so he circled the house once, slow and silent, scanning every angle. Then he went in. The front door gave way with a groan loud enough to make his skin crawl, but no sound followed it. He cleared the rooms one by one, kitchen, living room, two bedrooms, a bathroom, sweeping corners, checking closets. Nothing. No bodies, no squatters. Just dust, overturned furniture, and the remnants of someone’s life: a child’s shoe under the couch, a cracked family photo on the floor, the TV still plugged into a wall that hadn’t seen power in years.

When he was sure the place was empty, he shut the door and slid a rusted bolt into place. Only then did he peel off his tactical vest, muscles aching with the release of weight. He set his rifle within arm’s reach, knelt by the wall, and exhaled, slow, steady, like he was letting go of the day one breath at a time. Outside, the wind howled louder, and rain began tapping against the roof like fingers drumming on a coffin lid. 

North of Almareth City, 05:00 AM

“I am not your failure, you did not kill me, Si.” 

On another day, Simon would have walked away. On another day, he would have left the broken dreams and shattered hopes behind. He would have turned his back on the love that bound him to the devil. He would have ignored the guilt he felt. On another day, he would have kept his soul from bleeding out for the angels who had fallen at his feet. Today was not that day. He looked at the painfully familiar face and felt like he had come up for air after being underwater for years. An evil face, yes, but still his father. He fell to his knees, and yet, the fire in his father’s eyes still burned, the flames of his rage trapping the light, wanting to destroy, to consume, to hurt.

“You are weak.”

The figure changed faces, like a knife to the chest. But Simon quickly discovered that he didn’t care about the knife, it was just a sweet lullaby, if he could see his brother one more time.

"You have to be better, I will destroy you. The same way I destroyed myself."

Simon always knew that a part of him died when his family died. With his family gone, the part that was his greatest regret and his most precious joy, disappeared. The part that was reserved for a loving smile and admiring warmth. 

Simon had always aspired to be a good brother, a good son. But he failed to be good at anything when it came to his family. He let that attachment blossom into a love that eventually turned into hate. He fought it, hid it, repressed it, but in the end he couldn't reject it. He loved his family and when everything was destroyed, when Simon became everything he hated, the end came. He wasn't a good enough man. He wasn't there for his family when they needed him. And he let them die, chained, he let them drown in death, pain and fear. His tears started to flow, he tried to overcome the sorrow and guilt that ate away at his heart. But he couldn't escape fate.

"I am sorry," he tried to say, he desperately wanted to believe those words, "I wish everything had been different." he tasted the salty tears on his lips as his brother disappeared from the horizon, his disappearance symbolizing the end of his nightmare but never the end, he knew, as he was thrown back into the present.

Back to a hard floor, clothes wet with cold sweat and shallow breaths in his lungs that fought to release this ongoing nightmare that would never go away. The thought was grim, but not unexpected. Ghost often saw the devil in his nightmares, winking at him and playing with him. It was always with him. It was like a bride waiting for him at church, refusing to leave without him, until Ghost made a promise that would last forever.

The wind howled through the cracked windows of the farmhouse, dragging with it the scent of the coming rain. Simon didn’t move, the cold floor beneath him felt like a grave, and his chest rose in shallow, careful breaths as if he were afraid to break the silence. He wiped at his face with a trembling hand, but the tears had already dried, leaving salt on his skin like dried blood. His fingers curled inwards, useless fists clenching nothing. At that moment, he wasn’t a soldier. He wasn’t Ghost. He was a broken thing, crawling through the wreckage of a life that had never been his to save. The past always came back at night, wearing different faces, whispering with different voices. His mother’s soft hum. His father’s cruel laugh. His brother’s scream, the last one, the one that haunted the corners of his silence. It lived in him now, like shrapnel buried deep beneath the skin. He’d stopped trying to dig it out. Pain was part of him, pain he deserved.

The storm outside grew louder, clawing at the farmhouse walls like it wanted to rip them down, like it knew this ghost didn’t belong here. Simon stood, slowly, his joints ached, bones stiff from cold and memory. He grabbed his rifle, unlatched the front door, and stepped back into the dark, back to where he belonged.

---

The sun had just begun its descent on the horizon, its rays gently caressing the cold streets. It was the complete opposite of what had started dancing in his heart, the deserted place brought back old memories, memories that were better kept buried. This was not the bloody time, Ghost told himself, as he continued through another abandoned street, and tried but failed to bury every emotion that tried to escape the cage in his heart.

The shadows shortened as the sun rose higher in the sky, but the cold did not recede. The wind carried dust and fragments of life with it, a broken toy under its cracked pavement, a rusty sign with an erased inscription, a door screaming dreams that had been devoured. Every step he took was like a sound in a poem long forgotten. He had no clear goal, he just had to move. To leave what was behind, even if he knew that what was behind always found a way to return.

His next step took him to a place that seemed too intact for a dead city, he found a concrete bridge that had survived the bombs, too quiet, too clean. The bridge led to the other end of the dead city. The file he was given had been proven correct, there were four districts in the city, the map he had taken showed him that he was heading for the third district, mostly jungle, the most devastated part of the city. The bridge led him to the other end, a seam between old ruin and new catastrophe. And when he reached its end, the third district was revealed in all its ugliness. 

A ruined city conquered by nature, then plundered again by time and blood. Trees growing out of broken concrete, moss-covered walls, roots that bent sidewalks and collapsed houses. Everything seemed alive. He pulled the map from his side pocket, one eye on it, the other always scanning the shadows. The markings were clear, an abandoned warehouse in the third district, an old meeting point. Maybe a control station, maybe something else. Whoever wrote his report wasn’t generous with the details.

Ghost began to move forward among the ruined buildings. The sun barely penetrated through the palm fronds and the grass climbing the walls. It was like walking into an open grave, and the ground kept vibrating beneath him, as if something was still moving deep inside. He kept walking. Every now and then he heard a sound, a branch breaking, or a whisper in the distance. But when he stopped, there was nothing there. Just the trees. Just the shadows that accompanied him. And then, he saw it. A cabin. At the end of a muddy path, a roof that had almost collapsed, but the door was closed. Not just hanging, closed. Someone was there.

Ghost dropped to his knees, half-hidden behind a thorn bush. He raised his rifle, eyes sharpening, and waited. His weapon pressed to his shoulder, his eye through the scope, every muscle tense. He had learned long ago that real danger doesn’t come with noise. It comes in silence. In a flash, in the wrong breath. And this cabin, it breathed, it whispered… and the wind carried the whisper to him.

Minutes later, his eye caught a movement. A crack in the side of the door opened for a moment, like a slow blink. There were no sharp movements, no hasty opening, just a silence that was too tense, too precise. Ghost scanned his surroundings again, a plan of the place already forming in his head, half-broken fences behind, collapsing walls on the sides, thick bushes covering the road from the south. It wasn’t a shelter, it was a trap. A trap that seemed easy to enter, but the exit… was uncertain.

Ghost didn’t move. A shadow slipped over a bunch of leaves, the sound of a distant animal came from the forest, the smell of approaching rain carried in the air. And his heart? It was quiet, precise. Planted inside him like a sniper’s watch. And then the door opened. Ghost loaded his gun, and fired. 

“Motherfucker!” 

The voice was male, and Ghost almost snorted. He rose from the bush and in an instant came closer to the cabin, ready to finish the job with a knife in his hand. All he found was an empty room. Not even blood smeared the wooden floor. He stepped inside, knife drawn, other hand close to the gun, feet moving on tiptoe, and then the door slammed shut behind him.

He turned instinctively, his gun almost rising, but too late. The blow hit him like a hammer. A body slammed into his back, and they crashed together to the floor, the pain glaring down his back like a hot knife. He tried to pull his weapon, but the stranger’s fingers were already there, gripping his wrist, pushing the gun aside with unnatural force.

Ghost landed on his back, all the oxygen leaving his lungs at once. The knife flew from his hand and slid under the table. The gun was trapped between their bodies. They rolled, Ghost tried to create distance, the stranger continuing to pin him to the ground, gravity winning. A fist dug into his jaw, a taste of metal exploded in his mouth. He responded immediately, an elbow aimed at his opponent's ribs, striking and shaking the attacker's control, enough to tip over, now he was on top. But the stranger already had a knife in his hand.

Ghost caught the wrist with both hands, halting the blade a breath from his neck, the steel trembling against the skin above his artery, death balanced on a whisper. Their eyes locked, and in that frozen moment, the world fell away. Below him, the man’s eyes were not just blue, they were an entire goddamn ocean, bottomless, terrifying in their calm; the kind of blue that drowned, not saved. Ghost breathed through his teeth, steady and quiet, and then, like the cruel flicker of sunlight before a storm, the stranger's lips curved into a smile, full and soft and ruinous, the kind of smile that belonged to ghosts in dreams or devils in disguise. Ghost knew immediately who it belonged to.

“You are the idiot who shot my bike.”

The man arched his brow, amused. He didn’t try to deny it. “Thought it might slow ye down.”

“It did,” Ghost snapped. “Now I’m pissed and on foot.”

“You’re welcome,” the man said, tilting his head like he was genuinely offering a gift, his hands still holding the knife surprisingly firm. "Call it cardio, eh?”

Ghost opened his mouth to spit back venom, but the fire never made it past his lips. Something struck him from behind, not a blow but an eruption, a brutal thud that echoed inside his chest. His body jolted, spine stiffening, eyes flaring wide in stunned silence. For a breathless instant there was no pain, only a sudden, terrifying heat blooming across his abdomen, spreading outward in waves like wildfire licking through a dry forest. Then it hit him, sharp, raw, searing straight through muscle and thought. He stumbled back, breath tearing ragged from his lungs, his fingers flying instinctively to his gut. When they came back slick and red, his brows knitted in dumb confusion, as if the blood couldn’t possibly be his. 

“Fer fuck’s sake…” he heard the Scot growl distantly, just before the darkness surged in and swallowed him whole.

Chapter 2: Soap

Third district, Almareth City, 08:00 AM

He was feckin‘ heavy. 

The first thing Soap realized, besides the burning in his thighs as he hauled Ghost's unconscious body up a gravel incline, was that the infamous mercenary bled just like anyone else. Thick, scarlet, and stubborn blood, it soaked through the torn tactical shirt and painted Soap's gloves bright. He barely managed to get them out, factions tearing at each other like rabid wolves, each side sure the two strangers were threats to their reign. Truth was, they weren't wrong. But Soap hadn't been briefed for this. Price said he'd find someone who needed saving. He hadn't mentioned a wounded ghost in a haunted city.

He dragged Ghost‘s ridiculously heavy body into an old butcher shop with one wall collapsed and the other reeking of rust. There were no windows, no easy exits. Good enough. He laid him down, careful but quick. Then he removed his gloves, blood immediately coated his hands. Soap ripped open his med pouch, the zipper screamed loud in the hush, and set to work. The wound was high, abdominal, just beneath the ribs. Deep and sharp entry, but clean. Ghost had been lucky. Or stubborn. Probably both. He worked fast, he put pressure, cleaned it, his hands moving with practiced calm, but his jaw was tight, his breath held between clenched teeth. He ignored the nasty old scars that littered Ghost’s body and wiped away sweat on his forehead. “Ye better no’ die on me,” Soap muttered under his breath but no response came, just the shallow rise and fall of Ghost’s chest.

Soap finished wrapping the wound and leaned back on his heels, his own arms trembled with fatigue. He glanced for a moment at Ghost’s mask, still on. It was cracked slightly where the cheek met the edge of the jaw. Blood had found its way beneath it, trickled in quiet lines over white bone paint. Soap reached up, hesitated, but then decided against it. He signed, instead wiping his hands on his thighs, leaving smears of someone else’s life across his pants, but it didn’t stop them from trembling, the storm outside had quieted, they were safe for now he knew, but the city never quieted. Not when Almareth discovered fresh prey. 

It's been two weeks since Soap entered the city, enough time to make sense of the dynamic of this hellshow. He knew which streets to avoid after dark, which gangs ran which corners, and who to bribe to stay off the radar. The first few days he had almost shat his pants entering this war zone, so different from what he'd seen in usual warfare, but soon enough he got used to it. Even if his heart still raced each time he discovered a body nailed in a public square, a declaration of peace. A warning dressed as art. Each faction had its own signature, one liked to hang corpses upside down with their eyelids cut off, another left heads in shopping bags with little notes tucked inside, lovely things, nothing subtle… Almareth didn’t do subtle.

Soap had figured out early that walking like you belonged was half the battle. The rest was attitude, firepower, and not asking stupid questions. He kept his mouth shut, eyes open, and his weapons closer than his shadow. He lasted longer that way. But now he had Ghost bleeding out and every instinct told him they weren’t hidden enough. Someone would’ve seen them flee the ambush. Maybe someone had followed, the city had too many eyes and not enough secrets. Soap rose and peeked out through the slats of the half-collapsed wall. A kid on a bike rode by like it was just another morning, an old woman dragged a broken cart full of scraps. He checked his comms. Static and silent, it’s been three days since his comms died, not being able to contact Price was… thrilling. He turned back to Ghost. The bastard hadn’t moved. Just lay there, chest rising slowly, blood seeping into the floor. He’d stabilized him, for now. But they couldn’t stay here. Not long, not in Third District, where alliances shifted by the hour and every building had a price on its silence.

Soap reloaded his sidearm, chambered a round, and exhaled through his nose. He braced himself and hauled up Ghost, he knew the gear on the mercenary was going to make this task a hundred times harder but the wrath from a ghost, who will find his gear missing upon waking, would be ten times worse. So Soap considered it a terribly cruel workout. He dragged Ghost's body through the shattered butcher’s shop door, muscles howling, boots skidding slightly on blood-wet tile. 

The morning light outside was a cold, grey smear across the rubble-strewn street, filtering through layers of ash and city grit. The stink of rot and gasoline was thicker here, closer to the city’s industrial area. Soap moved fast, half-carrying, half-hauling Ghost like a sack of bricks, muttering curses under his breath the whole way. Each step felt like dragging death itself uphill, but letting go wasn’t an option. He pushed forward, gritting through the pain in his shoulders, Ghost’s dead weight pulling at him with every jolt. Somewhere distant, gunfire stuttered, short, controlled bursts. Someone was having a bad morning… Soap ignored it. He ducked into an alley, dodging a swarm of crows that erupted from a dead animal, the rib cage exposed like a half-open mouth.

The alley was small, stinking of piss and diesel. A dog barked once, then went silent. Soap didn’t trust the quiet. He didn’t trust anything in this damned city, not the alleys, not the walls, not even the shadows. Especially not the shadows. He’d seen too many things crawling just at the edge of vision, too quiet, too fast, not quite human. The factions used more than men out here. Whatever drugs or tech they were pumping into their soldiers had made monsters, and Soap had no intention of testing if they were bulletproof too. He paused behind a dumpster, sagged against it, Ghost slumped beside him like a broken marionette. His breath came in short, harsh gasps, but he was still breathing, that counted for something, right? Soap cracked his neck, wiped his brow with a sleeve already stiff with dried blood, and checked the satchel again. Supplies were low. His rations would run out in a day, and the water purifier was cracked from the last fight. He needed to move, but not without a plan.

There was a safehouse Price had told him. Some ex-military contractor and local warlord had built it out of an old railway control station on the edge of Fourth district, neutral ground, supposedly. Problem was, getting there meant crossing Fourth district turf, and they didn’t play. They wore smiles carved into their helmets and armor stitched with flesh, actual flesh, Soap wasn’t asking from where, and they patrolled like sharks, fast and mean. Still, it was either that or try to barter with the Wolves of Third district, and he wasn’t going anywhere near them again. Not after what he saw last time in that crimson-lit den of horrors. So, Fourth district it was. A deathtrap, but at least a deathtrap with straight lines and rules. Sort of.

Soap adjusted the harness he’d jerry-rigged out of Ghost’s gear and steel cable, locking it around his chest like some bastard baby carrier from hell. He crouched low, checked both ends of the alley, then moved. Fast, silent, feet over glass, eyes over shoulder. They passed two more streets, zigzagging past closed shops with burned-out windows, through a market courtyard where the stalls stood like skeletal ribs. He spotted eyes watching from behind a curtain of rusted chains, a glint of movement from a rooftop. No one approached, but that didn’t mean they were safe. 

The safe house was a bunker masquerading as a home, half-buried in the earth behind a boarded-up train depot, hidden beneath layers of disrepair and scavenged camouflage. Soap had to input an old code Price had drilled into him and even then the rusted keypad shocked his fingers like it resented being touched. The door creaked open and the smell hit him first: old oil, stale air, and something medicinal. But it was solid. Reinforced concrete, steel-braced windows, supply lockers still sealed tight. Whoever built it expected to outlast a siege.

Soap dragged Ghost in, dropped the bolt, and kicked a chair under the handle for good measure. He shuffled them through the corridor, past racks of sealed rations and faded photos of soldiers long dead, until he found a room with a bed. An actual mattress, too thin and stained, but heaven compared to tile. He lowered Ghost onto it slowly, carefully, as if the weight might shatter the whole thing. Ghost didn’t even stir. Just laid there, pale and unmoving, bandages tight around his middle, arms limp at his sides. His mask was still on, though the crack had widened slightly, like it might split down the middle. Only when he was sure the bed wouldn’t break Soap finally sat down on the floor, back to the wall, breathing fast and stared.

He didn’t move for a while. The quiet in the safe house was unnatural, thick like blood. No sirens, no gunshots, no screaming. Soap’s ears didn’t trust it, they rang with phantom sounds, echoes of earlier chaos, of boots slapping wet pavement, of shouted orders and the hard punch of gunfire. He sat with his knees up, rifle resting loosely in his hands, one eye on the door and the other on Ghost, he watched the rise and fall of his chest like a metronome. Still steady. Still alive.

The hours bled together into the night. Soap didn’t sleep. He couldn’t. Completely paranoid, he kept checking the windows, drinking water in small, slow sips, eating half a ration bar just to keep his stomach from turning inside out. Every so often he’d look back to Ghost, half expecting him to be gone, to disappear like a dream. But no, there he was, stubborn bastard, refusing to die. Even in sleep, Ghost looked like a man who didn’t rest easy. Muscles tense, hands half-curled like he was still ready to fight something. Whatever hell he came from didn’t let go easy.

At some point in the night Ghost shifted. It was a twitch at first. Then a groan, low and dry like a rusted hinge. Soap bolted upright, his rifle lowered, and eyes locked on the bed. Ghost stirred like a man waking from a nightmare he hadn’t finished yet. His breath was loud in the room, shallow and sharp, eyes flickering open beneath the cracked mask. For a split second he was still, and then Soap watched him twist up from the mattress with a strangled growl, hand flying to a non-existent weapon, legs bracing for a fight, but his wound seemed to scream louder than his reflexes, Ghost faltered, collapsing sideways against the headboard, one arm clutching his abdomen. His breathing turned ragged. Still, his other hand curled into a fist, and his posture shifted, defensive, tense, the instincts of a soldier ready to strike even if it killed him.

Soap stayed still, his back against the wall, watching Ghost like he was a wild dog freshly unchained, injured, and all teeth. The reaction hadn’t surprised him, not really. He’d known the moment Ghost’s eyes opened there’d be no gratitude, no shaky thanks or nod of recognition. The man wasn’t built for that. Loyalty, yes. Violence, absolutely. But kindness? Trust? That was someone else’s blueprint, not Ghost’s. So when the bastard lurched upright like death had been waiting a long time for a chance to strike, Soap didn’t move. He let him thrash, let him realize the pain would soon remind him of his limit. 

Ghost’s hand clutched at his side, the fresh wrap straining as he fought to stay upright, his mask fractured and glinting in the low light. He looked like something torn out of myth, half-specter, half-soldier, and all rage. It wasn’t the kind of rage that shouted though. His fury came in the way his shoulders locked, in how his breath hissed through gritted teeth, in the precision of his silence. His eyes, shadowed under the cracked skull of his mask, locked onto Soap with surgical precision like a man trying to decide where to land the first blow. He didn’t ask questions, just stared with that dead calm that always came right before the violence. Seemed like the only thing holding him back was the white-hot pain radiating from his gut, and even that looked like a temporary obstacle.

Soap slowly crossed the room and filled a dented cup from the water jug, then set it down next to the bed. Ghost watched the movement like a man expecting poison. Soap didn’t care. He stepped back and leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, jaw tight. For a long moment, Ghost didn’t move. The room was too quiet, save for the slow ticking of an old clock nailed to the wall and the distant hum of wind against steel shutters. After a few moments, Ghost finally lowered his gaze to the cup, not reaching for it, just measuring the situation. 

Soap didn’t flinch when Ghost finally moved. It was fast, brutal, almost beautiful in its precision. A hand that had looked too weak to lift anything suddenly shot out, fingers curling around the handle of the combat knife Soap hadn’t realized was still strapped to his thigh. A flash of silver, and the next thing he knew, cold steel kissed the line of his throat. Soap couldn't breathe. The blade pressed firm, not quite enough to draw blood, but close. Close enough to make the pulse at his neck pound hard against the edge. Ghost was fully upright now, somehow, gods-damned miracle or just pure spite. He leaned in close, eyes dark brown? and cracked mask just inches from Soap’s face, a combination straight from a horror show, his breath still ragged but solid enough.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Just the low hum of air moving through the vents, and the sound of Ghost’s breathing, like something half-feral, held together by instinct and rage. Soap’s jaw flexed. He wanted to move, to duck and disarm, strike back but he didn’t. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was the exhaustion dragging at his bones. Maybe it was knowing Ghost wasn’t all there yet, not with that much blood loss. Maybe it was that flicker of something else beneath the mercenary’s eyes, not hesitation, no, Ghost didn’t hesitate. But wariness, or a recognition. Or maybe, Soap just wanted to see what would happen. 

“Go on, then” Soap whispered, low and even, he would not flinch. He would not back down. “Do it.” The knife didn’t move. “I dragged your sorry arse out of Third while bullets were flyin’, carried you like a bloody sack of bricks through alleys, wrapped you up, kept you alive. And this is the thanks I get?” He smiled then. “Real charmer, you are.”

Ghost didn’t speak. Just leaned in a fraction more, the pressure of the knife increasing, just enough to make Soap feel the skin stretch tight beneath the steel. Soap’s pulse didn’t slow. He could feel the tension crackling in the narrow space between them, and gods he could smell him, underneath the blood and dust, sweat, something sharp like metal. And even now, with a knife to his throat, Soap’s brain, such traitorous thing, registered the shape of Ghost’s mouth beneath the fractured mask, the curve of his neck, the strain in his arms, all muscle and fury and heat. Fuck. Of all the bastards to get half-hard over, it had to be the one ready to open his throat.

“Thought you were a myth,” Soap continued, voice softer now. “Ghost. The Ghost. Price said you were half-legend, half-mad dog. Didn’t say you’d be such a prick.” That earned him something, a shift in Ghost’s posture, a flicker behind the eyes, like he recognized Price’s name. Soap slowly raised his hands not in surrender, not quite. Just open-palmed, and non-threatening. “You kill me, you bleed out in this shithole. Comms are dead. No one’s comin’. I’m the only bastard who knows how deep your insides are sliced. So unless you’ve got a death wish bigger than your ego, I suggest you put the knife down and save your strength for whoever comes knockin’ next.”

For a moment longer, Ghost didn’t move. Then, like a machine winding down, the tension began to shift. His shoulders sagged, barely, but enough for Soap to notice. The blade dropped, not all the way, just lowered a fraction. Enough for Soap to breathe properly.

“Who the hell are you?” Ghost rasped, voice like smoke and gravel. So damn dry. He had the deepest voice Soap had ever heard, like the man smoked cigarettes for a living. 

Soap exhaled slowly, his hands didn’t lower. “Name’s John, Sergeant John MacTavish. You can call me Soap.” Ghost didn’t respond, if the name meant anything to him, he gave no sign, he just stared, knife still clenched, hand shaking now, not from fear, Soap could tell, but from exhaustion. The kind that crawled into your bones and made a home there. He was running low on fumes and fury. “You should rest,” Soap added quietly. “You’ve got time. For now. I locked the place up tight.”

“I don’t know you,” Ghost muttered. He turned his head and began to scan the safe house. Soap finally lowered his arms and signed, it was a little like dealing with a wild dog that hadn’t quite decided if it wanted to bite.

“Yeah, well. I don't trust you either.” He took a step back, giving Ghost space, watching him settle awkwardly against the wall and bed, chest still heaving from the strain. The knife was still in his hand, but limp now, resting against his thigh. “You’ve got questions,” Soap added. “So do I. But right now, you either kill me or let me help you. Those are your options.”

Ghost said nothing, he kept staring at the cup of water again, then at Soap. Soap crossed the room and sat back down, far enough not to be a threat, close enough to act if Ghost decided to try anything again. He wasn’t sure how long they sat like that. Minutes, maybe longer. But he didn’t look away. Couldn’t. He’d seen monsters before. Men wearing masks, hiding behind ridiculous nicknames, trying to scare the world into submission. But Ghost was different, Ghost wasn’t trying, Ghost was. All teeth and silence and rage, wrapped in mystery and the echo of something broken. And somehow, under all that blood and armor and menace, Soap couldn’t stop looking. He didn’t want to stop.

Ghost sat on the edge of the mattress, one hand resting on the bed, the other still loosely gripping the knife. His shoulders were hunched, posture closed, defensive. But not from fear. Ghost didn’t seem like he knew how to be afraid. This was something different, Soap knew all too well. The kind of caution that came from too many knives in the back and too many exits memorized before ever sitting down. Soap stayed quiet and let the man gather his thoughts, he didn’t push for thanks, didn’t try to reassure or close the distance again. That wasn’t how this worked. He knew better. Some men needed space like they needed oxygen, and Ghost looked like he’d spent most of his life fighting off hands that got too close. Still, Soap watched him, intrigued, eyes tracing the lines of tension in his frame. Every shift in his shoulders, every twitch of his fingers, he looked like he was about to snap, but he looked dangerous again, which was somehow a relief. Soap would take dangerous over dying any day.

Soap leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes for just a second. His body ached in places he hadn’t known he could feel. Muscles locked from strain. His hands were still numb from carrying Ghost’s weight block after block through hell. And under all that, a fatigue deeper than bone. But he couldn’t sleep, not until he knew Ghost wouldn’t end up killing him, not until he was sure they weren’t followed. Soap opened his eyes and glanced over. Ghost was still staring ahead, mask tilted slightly like he was listening to something far off. The fractured edge of his mask caught the light just so, casting a shadow like a crack running down his face. “I didn’t touch your mask,” Soap said quietly, breaking the silence. “Figured you’d bite me.”

There was a small shift, not a laugh, Soap wasn’t foolish enough to expect even a scoff, but the corner of Ghost’s shoulder dropped a millimeter. A release of tension so slight it might’ve been imagined but Soap caught it. Tiny wins. Ghost leaned back again, his movements mechanical, every muscle knew how to minimize pain. Soap wondered how many times he’d patched himself up in some dead-end crawlspace, crouched between a brick wall and the business end of a bounty. Probably more times than either of them could count. He watched Ghost inspect his bandaged wound, worked the wrap tighter, sealed it with a zip strip. There was no sound, and no hiss of pain. Just the soft scrape of cloth against skin and a breath held too long. Soap looked away, not because he was embarrassed, but because looking too long felt like an intrusion. 

When Ghost finally spoke again, his voice was quieter. Not softer, he figured Ghost didn’t do soft. “Price,” he breathed, not a question, more like trying to confirm what he already knew. “You are with him?”

Soap nodded, running a hand through his mohawk, “I'm part o’ his task force. Price said there’d be someone who needed pulling out. He just sent some coordinates and the warning not to trust anyone. Thought he was bit dramatic. Until I saw the first body strung up on a traffic light.” He paused. “This city’s sick,” Soap mumbled.

Ghost finally looked up, and Soap could confirm the color. Deep brown eyes, darker than any whiskey, richer than earth after rain, they were still guarded, but not lethal, his pupil now contracted again. Soap tried to ignore the gaze, the heat that burned in his body as Ghost’s eyes stared into him. He didn’t take his eyes off of him, as if carving a dangerous path from Soap’s face to his insides. 

But then, Ghost finally settled back into the bed who groaned loudly underneath his weight. Soap looked at him for a moment in silence, then, with a half-sneer, asked, trying to break the ice, if it would ever be possible, “Do you sleep with the mask on too?”

Ghost didn’t move. Only one eye squinted at him from under the shadow of the painted bone. “Helps keep the demons in.” His voice was hoarse, scratchy, as if coming from a deep, neglected hell. 

Soap scratched the stubble on his neck, his head tilted to the side, “Ever try melatonin?” 

“Ever try shutting up?”

Soap chuckled and closed his eyes, trying to lull himself into the sleep that yet escaped him again and again. When he finally managed to fall asleep, one last thought chased him: Ghost still hadn't touched the glass he’d offered.

---

Fourth district, Almareth city, 02:00 AM

The water was cold. It soaked through his combat boots to his socks, but the discomfort was far from Soap’s mind, all the filth that clung to his clothes were mere inconvenience, especially when his damn life was on the line. The flying bullets were the only thing he focused on, the screaming in the distance and his missing gun. He had no way to protect himself but lower his body in the dirt and wait till one side gave in, from fatigue or just death. His ears were starting to ring from the bombs that went off, his mind trying to block the flying limbs without success.

He was going to die. The thought flashed through his head, harsh and real. This was going to be his tomb, his family will never get his body to bury and he will be forgotten on this field just like the countless soldiers before him. He wondered which future neighbor died beneath his feet and trembled from the thought.

One moment his breathing was ragged, not strong enough to be heard over the warzone, and in another it screamed in his ears. The field became horribly silent, no more bullets flew by, no more bombs went off, he couldn't even hear soldiers footsteps, or the shouting commands of his superior, nothing, just complete utter silence. Did he finally reach heaven? But he could still feel his water filled boots, could still feel the uncomfortable moist of the summer, maybe he deserved hell… Soap tried to get his bearings, he tried to stand up from the hole he hid in, and miserably failed, his knees were too weak, but he tried again. On the fourth try he managed to stand, still not straight, his hands supported by the mud wall, but when he finally managed to stand fully, he climbed the mud wall and left the foxhole behind.

Soap breathed in the humid summer air, but before his body could fully stand upright, in the complete silence he heard a gun reloading, a gun pointing straight at him, and went off.

Soap bolted awake. His chest rose and fell with panicked heaves, sweat slicking his back and soaking into the floor beneath him. The dream clung to him, stubborn like the mud on his boots, the gunshot ringing in his ears louder than his pounding heart. He sat on the floor for a second, frozen, eyes wide and unfocused, trying to figure out if the darkness around him was the aftermath of the blast or just the room before dawn. He dragged a hand down his face, calloused fingers digging into his skin like he needed to confirm he was still alive. His chest still hurt from where he imagined the bullet hit. He could still feel the phantom thump of it tearing through him. 

Soap looked down at his shirt, half-expecting to see blood soaking through, but there was nothing. Just damp cotton clinging to his ribs. But then Soap noticed the quiet of the room. Not a good silence, an empty silence, the kind that screams of lack. There was no sound of heavy breathing from the bed, no squeak of Ghost moving even slightly. 

Soap stretched slowly, his body screaming from the overly bad sleep, his eyes scanning the room but there was no one there. The bed beside him was empty. The sheets were still wrinkled, but cold already. He stood up immediately, leaned on the wall for a moment, exhaled, and then stood up fully. Every bone in his body reminded him of the night before. Slowly, he checked the room, the hallway. No new bloodstains, no noise, no sign of an invasion. Only his pulse was starting to pick up. He gripped his gun without thinking at all, bare feet on the cold concrete floor, careful not to step on anything. The tension that washed over his back was automatic.

He reached the old kitchen and found him. Ghost sat at the table across from him, leaning back in the chair, his head tilted slightly as if in challenge at the gun Soap didn't yet lower. The skull mask was off, only his black balaclava on his face, it was different, softening the lines of whatever Soap could grasp of his face, revealing the black paint around his eyes more clearly. In front of him, spread out on the table, lay a map, torn and old, with red markings drawn in a hasty hand, arrows, borders, circles, one edge held by a glass. Ghost didn’t take his glassy eyes off of him as Soap entered the kitchen and lowered his gun to the table.

“Are you brooding?” Soap said, hoarse from the quick nap. He opened the cabinets and ignored Ghost’s eyes who wouldn't leave him, desperately trying to find some coffee. He wasn't too hopeful for milk but warm bitter coffee would be good enough for him. But Soap’s searches soon came empty handed and he approached the table slowly, defeated. He immediately smelled the content of the glass at the edge of the table, a quick scan of his surroundings revealed the cheap bottle of Vodka, completely empty on the floor. “Bit early for that, eh?”

Ghost’s silence was expected, what Soap didn't expect were the wrinkles that appeared at the edges of his eyes. Was this beautiful bastard smiling? His eyes somehow became even glasier, so wet and shiny, and red rimmed. Soap began to panic. “Are you bleeding?”

Ghost didn't move for a solid minute, just sat, slouched into himself and silent, Soap lowered his gaze and noticed Ghost’s knuckles white on the table, trying like hell to hold himself upright despite the tremble in his arms. Without hesitation Soap approached him. “Let me see,” Soap said, low and even, voice stripped down to nothing but fact. There was no place for challenge or pity. 

Ghost didn’t lift his head. Didn’t nod. Just muttered, thick-tongued and barely coherent, “It’s fine.”

“Aye?” Soap circled the table, stopping beside the chair. He crouched beside Ghost, his first aid kit already open in one hand. The angle let him see just how much blood had soaked into the wrappings. It wasn’t fresh-fresh, but it was damp enough to worry him. The wound hadn’t closed. Ghost must’ve torn it open again when he stumbled out here in the dark, trying to play tactician while half-dead and drunk off military-issue vodka. “Lean back,” Soap pleaded. “I need access.”

Ghost didn’t move.

“Come on,” Soap coaxed, fingers resting lightly on the edge of the chair. There was a long silence. Then Ghost finally moved, slow, jerky movements, like every muscle in his body had to scream first. He shifted in the chair, teeth gritted behind the balaclava, then leaned backwards slightly with a grunt that sounded like a swallowed curse.

“Alright,” Soap said, his voice soft now, hands already working. He tugged the bloodied wrap free gently, careful not to tear the skin underneath. The wound was red, inflamed at the edges, and a bit deeper than he remembered. Probably from Ghost’s performance with the knife earlier. “You’ve been stress testing your own gut like it’s Kevlar,” he muttered more to himself.

Ghost didn’t answer, just breathed through his teeth, trying and failing to stay still. He twitched, and once when the antiseptic hit the open skin, a full-body jerk that Soap caught with a firm palm on his side “Breathe,” Soap said, steady. He carefully covered the new wrap around his torso, snug but not tight enough to restrict. His hands moved in slow, professional, but there was heat behind them. Each time he touched bare skin, every time his fingers grazed a scar or muscle line or the dip of a rib, he felt it. 

“You keep touchin’ me like that, Sergeant, I’m gonna start askin’ for flowers first.”

Soap rolled his eyes, but it was half an act. Ghost’s voice was low and drunk enough to crawl under his skin, worming its way into his thoughts whether he liked it or not. His hands were too warm from pressing into Ghost’s skin, and every time he blinked, he saw the shimmer of sweat and blood catching in the man’s collarbones. “You’re delirious,” Soap muttered, trying to shut the heat down before it started. “And an arsehole.”

Ghost hummed, long and loose, head rolling to one side as he eyed the bottle on the floor like he might summon another round if he stared hard enough. “Take one to know one,” he rasped, voice dipping again. Ghost exhaled through his nose, eyes fluttering shut for half a second before snapping open again, bloodshot and glazed, aimed straight at Soap.

“You’re shaking,” Soap muttered, taping off the bandage and smoothing it down. “From pain or the drink?” When Ghost didn't answer, he stayed where he was, crouched beside him, eyes flicking up to Ghost’s face, what little of it was visible. “You gonna bite me if I help you lie back down?” Soap asked, voice just shy of a whisper now.

Ghost didn’t answer right away. Then, faint and raspy, “Only if you enjoy it.”

Soap swallowed. His pulse thumped once, heavy. He nodded slowly, slipped an arm under Ghost’s as gently as he could. “Aye, tough guy.”

It took more effort than it should’ve, but Ghost let him in mostly. His body fought the movement every step, drunk muscles clumsy and stiff with pain. But he didn’t pull away. Didn’t threaten. Just leaned heavier into Soap’s side the second gravity took his legs out again. Soap lowered him onto the bed with care, he adjusted the pillow and pulled the blanket up. Watched Ghost breathe, watched his eyes slip half-shut. Still tense. Still armed to the teeth in every line of his body. But not flinching from Soap anymore. He savored the moment, knowing it wouldn’t last long.

Chapter 3: Soap

Notes:

https://open.spotify.com/track/0Gg9krMVwwsTC3URfYb7Hc?si=aSIAD_EOTWWDufIgCFuI0A

Three days later

Fourth district, Almareth City, 09:00 PM

The rain refused to stop. It came down thick like a curse, but not the kind that soothed his skin or whispered a promise of cleansing, this rain clung like a second skin, freezing his bones. It poured in sheets thick enough to blur the edges of the streets, each drop slapping against the cracked pavement. Soap kept his head low, the rain soaked through to his hair and skin and he was long past the point of caring. His fingers were numb and wet on the grip of his rifle, but the cold was a small price to pay for finally moving. 

They hadn’t spoken about the night Ghost nearly died. Not even once. The silence between them had settled thick and alive, like a second presence in the safehouse. Ghost hadn’t said thank you, hadn’t acknowledged the blood-soaked haul Soap made through streets lined with death, or the glimpse of vulnerability he showed two nights before. And Soap hadn’t asked for gratitude or confession, but damn it, part of him wanted it. Every hour that passed with no mention of the pain, the trust, the fear in Soap’s chest as he watched Ghost’s breath almost falter… it left something unresolved, a tension that wrapped around his spine and refused to loosen. But there wasn’t time to untangle it, or think too deep of it. They had to move. 

Soap couldn’t help but notice that Ghost had changed since waking. He wasn’t weak anymore. No fever-slicked sweat, no trembling hands, no drunken slurs. He’d locked the mask back into place, his pain tucked tight behind bone-white paint and blank eyes. The coldness of him had returned like a long winter that had never ended. He’d been quiet, sharp like a hawk watching everything. Moving his trained body like he’d never been injured. And the way his eyes cut through Soap now… clinical, distant, a predator analyzing prey, it made Soap feel like a rookie, inexperienced soldier waiting the attack. He didn’t know what game Ghost was playing, but the bastard was two steps ahead and holding all the cards.

They hadn’t spoken much since they left the safehouse at dusk. Ghost moved first, wordless, gloved hand, steady and strong, pointing west through the ruins of the fourth district, following some unspoken instinct. Soap had questions, questions he was afraid to ask, like who Ghost was really hunting, or why the bastard had stared at a red circle on the map for an hour, like the fate of the universe was dependent on how hard he did. But Ghost hadn’t explained, and Soap only dared to follow…

Soap ducked into a collapsed storefront, boots sloshing through rainwater and something thicker. The stench of mildew and old blood clung to the walls like rot in the bones of a corpse. Ghost followed a few seconds behind, a blur of motion, rifle up, head low, silent. He crouched beside Soap behind a shattered counter and gestured once toward the alley outside. There was movement, not of enemy troops, not of gang scouts, but civilians, three of them, young, maybe teenagers. Their coats hung off their bodies like testament of hunger, and they moved too quickly, too desperate to be locals. Soap exhaled, gun lowering. “Civiilains,” he muttered, more to himself than Ghost. “They’re just—”

Ghost quickly cut him off. “I know,” he said, voice deep like gravel poured over glass. Then he stood and melted into the next shadow. That was it. The closest thing to a conversation they’d had all day. Soap just followed after, boots thudding lightly against the floor, heart beating just a little too fast. They crossed three more streets in silence, past a row of broken statues that had once been a park for children, now tagged in blood-red sigils of one of the city’s older factions. Religious fanatics, Soap remembered. They believed Almareth had been cursed by God Himself, their dead were always burned in neat piles, heads missing, crosses nailed to their spines, a declaration of war. Ghost stepped over the ash piles without a glance. Soap couldn’t help but look. That was the thing about this city, it begged you to remember its horrors.

By the time they reached the edge of the Fourth District, the buildings began to twist. The architecture changed, almost subtly. Gone were the brick husks and shattered towers. Here, everything was sharper, newer, almost alive. Steel and glass twisted by flame, melted windows like the sockets of dead men, doors too narrow, too tall to be called beautiful, but Soap could appreciate the cruelty it took to ruin it all. Ghost stopped at the corner of an intersection and raised his hand, “Stay here,” he breathed. Soap was about to protest but Ghost didn’t even cast a glance at him, he rose and left him, blending into the shadows of the buildings. 

At first, he thought Ghost had vanished completely. One blink and the man was gone, swallowed by the warping lines of steel and glass. But Soap forced himself to look harder, to tune his eyes the way he would in a sniper’s scope, searching for movements that weren't supposed to be there. That was when he caught it, a ripple of shadow along a wall, too smooth for the rain, a faint distortion as Ghost slipped from one cover to the next. Soap braced himself, to what? He had no clue. He just knew a storm was coming, the thick rain that dropped was laughable in comparison to what was about to be unleashed.

The first soldier didn’t see it coming. Soap watched the bastard pace across a broken catwalk, helmet too damn clean that it glowed faintly in the firelight. He had his rifle slung loose, shoulders easy and relaxed, a scout who thought he owned the street. The Ghost came up behind him like smoke. One gloved hand clamped across the man’s mouth, the other driving a blade up through the weak point in the armor beneath the ribs. The body jerked once, legs kicking against the railing, then went limp. Ghost lowered him slow and silent, until the corpse was nothing more than another shadow in the rain. 

Soap swallowed hard, shifting on his boots. He’d seen plenty of kills, hell, he’d made more than he could count. But watching Ghost work was a different kind of drug. There was no waste, no hesitation, silent like a ghost, the man didn’t need to fight or try to meet resistance, he simply hunted.

The second one was faster. A soldier crept along the base of a burned-out car, rifle sweeping the street. He paused, tilting his head like he’d caught something in the rain. Soap’s finger twitched on his own trigger, but before he could raise his gun, Ghost dropped from above, a blur of black and white bone. He landed on the bastard’s back, knife flashing once across the throat, and the only sound Soap heard was the gurgle of breath that never finished. Ghost was gone again before the body finished collapsing into the gutter. Soap exhaled slowly through his nose, tension crawling across his shoulders. He tried to keep track, counting them like Price had drilled into him, one, two, three… but he surely missed some, it seems like the angle of death was too generous and eager to fill hell today.

Another sound cut through the storm. High-pitched and jagged, like a saw chewing through metal. Soap’s head snapped up in time to see a fourth soldier emerge from the door of a building, the bastard was looking straight toward Soap’s alley. His pulse spiked, he brought his rifle up but Ghost was already there. A shadow stepping out of the doorway behind the guy, knife reversed in his hand. The blade punched into the back of the man’s neck, straight through the base of the skull. Ghost yanked the blade free, wiped it once against his dark cargo, and slipped back into the dark.

Soap’s throat was dry. His heart hammered, not from fear but from the sheer savagery of it. One by one, precise as clockwork, the bastards were being thinned out. And Soap wasn’t needed at all. He crouched lower, rain dripping from his mohawk, eyes never leaving the shadows Ghost moved through. For a moment, the city felt haunted, as if the buildings themselves were conspiring to feed Ghost his prey. The soldiers laughed less now. Their voices came scattered, uneasy, confusion creeping in where confidence had been. Soap almost grinned at that. They thought they were the predators, but he knew better. Ghost was hunting, and the city was his killbox.

Soap breathed and relaxed in his position, he kept his ears open, but never once heard a gunshot, looks like The Ghost’s favorite form of sending men to hell was perfectly sharpened knives. Soap only heard bodies dropping, throats being slashed, silent screams that hadn’t had the time to be fully heard. All of it made Soap’s body relax, a guardian angel, a bloodied monster or a killing machine, had his back. But Soap didn’t have the time to relax fully, his instincts flared before his eyes caught it, a shape tumbling from the jagged roofline. For a heartbeat he thought it was another attack. His rifle came up, jaw locking tight. But the figure didn’t drop cleanly. It stopped, jerked, suspended feet from the ground. A rope snapped taut around its ankles. The body dangled, spinning slightly with the breeze. Soap’s stomach lurched.

It was a soldier, or what was left of one. His face had been carved past recognition, skin twisted, eyes gouged until sockets gaped empty, the blood still dripped, pattering into the dust in a steady rhythm. Soap gagged hard, bile clawing up his throat, the only ration bar he’d swallowed this morning surged back up, and he choked it down only barely, burning his tongue with the acid taste. Then the corpse swayed, turning slowly. When its back came into view, Soap’s knees gave out. He stumbled, boots skidding on loose gravel, and landed hard on his ass.

Carved into the man’s back was a cross. Not painted with blood or colors, but etched deep, crimson bleeding flesh, lines dragged cruel and aimed by a knife. A clear message in this war torn city, a silent message of promised death. “Jesus fucking Christ.” The words burst out of him louder than he meant, louder than Soap could take back. And the city answered his call.

From the shadowed street across the way, something shifted. Soap’s blood iced as he realized what he’d done. His stumble had left him exposed, wide in the open, framed perfectly in the dim glow of a hanging streetlamp. A soldier broke from the dark, rage boiling off him like hot water spilling from a pot. His boots pounded against the pavement, knife raised high, all fury and malice intent. Soap had no time. The rifle in his hands was angled wrong, the strap caught at his shoulder from his fall. He yanked at it, but the barrel snagged. His heart slammed against his ribs, adrenaline tearing through him. He’d have to fight through this with his fists.

The soldier was on him before thought could settle into action. Soap tore at his rifle, desperate to swing the barrel up, but the strap caught again. His fingers fumbled, the butt clattered against the pavement, useless, a burden rather than a weapon. The knife of the soldier flashed before him. Soap almost saw his reflection in its steel, blue eyes wide, jaw clenched, panic fully naked. His instincts screamed. He twisted sideways, barely escaping the first thrust. The blade kissed air where his throat had been a second earlier. The soldier snarled, furious at the miss, and drove forward again. He smelled of sweat and rusted iron, his breath ragged, his voice a guttural rasp. Soap staggered back, tripping over the gravel. His shoulder slammed into the shell of a car, rattling loose metal. He raised his arm to block. The knife slashed down, biting into the fabric of his sleeve, cutting deeper this time. His flesh split, fire burned up his nerves. Soap hissed through clenched teeth, vision blurring with the shock. His legs gave ground even as his body screamed to fight. The soldier simply grinned at the blood.

Soap reached for his sidearm, but the man was too close, already inside his guard. The knife rose again. But then…  A force slammed into the soldier, knocking him off his feet as if he were a child. The knife clattered against the pavement, spinning, abandoned.

Ghost.

The impact was thunderous, metal screeching as the two large bodies crashed into the wreckage of the car. The soldier gasped, the sound cut short as Ghost’s forearm drove into his throat, pinning him down. Soap stumbled sideways, clutching his bleeding arm, eyes wide. He was frozen in place and cursed himself for it. Why wasn’t he reacting?

The skull mask loomed over the soldier, blank and merciless. Ghost’s weight was crushing, his movements precise in their violence. A knee ground into the man’s chest, snapping ribs beneath the pressure. A gloved hand gripped his jaw, forcing it open. The soldier’s muffled scream clawed into the air, but it was strangled at birth, nothing more than a gurgle. Then Ghost struck, the knife, in a single fluid motion, drove down. Once. Twice. Again. And again, and again… Each thrust was brutal, flesh tore, blood fountained, becoming a river smelling of death. The soldier’s body writhed, then slackened, but Ghost didn’t stop. 

Soap’s stomach turned. Ghost carved until the man beneath him was no longer recognizable, until the body was nothing more than meat. The sound, wet and thick, echoed against the buildings, bouncing back at them, filling the streets. Soap pressed his good hand against the wound in his arm, grounding himself in the sharp pain. It was the only thing that kept him from retching… Soap knew war. He had seen soldiers lose limbs, he had seen soldiers lose their senses becoming less human, he had seen them lose their lives, but never, in all his ten years of service, had he ever seen a massacre like this. He had never seen anything as brutal, as efficient as the way Ghost killed the man. Soap’s hands trembled when the realization hit him; He was utterly terrified. 

Finally, after what felt like hours, Ghost stopped. His chest heaved, hot breath tearing through the mask, as blood dripped from the blade in steady rhythm, pooling beneath his knees. His shoulders shook, not from exhaustion, but from fury left nowhere to aim. The street had gone still again. Ghost turned his head, the hollow sockets of the mask catching Soap in their black gaze. Soap flinched before he could stop himself.

“Why didn’t you listen to me?”

This was the first and full sentence Ghost offered to Soap in over 48 hours. The words coming out of Ghost's throat, were the deepest and most beautiful tune Soap ever heard in days in these haunting streets. The way he pronounced the icy-stone words and the slight English accent made Soap forget about the very terrifying sight he needed to remember. The words just made him relax, creating a deep want to match his masculine voice to a face.

Ghost left the body behind and approached him slowly, and Soap, stupid reckless Soap, could feel the heat of his body radiating, it burned away every rational thought in Soap’s mind and filled his body with want, like a disease that had began to spread throughout his body and was about to devour all his insides without the slightest ability to stop it. Soap took a moment to scan him, blood dripping, chest rising and falling, clothes messy like– his eyes, his damn eyes were so black, looking into them felt a bit like sailing into a night storm unprepared. Soap was drowning in dark waves that were flooding his heart, that were crashing over him and threatening to pull him into the large sea. Soap’s breath caught. His pulse hammered against his skin. He forced his spine straight, forced his lips into a smile. “You’re insane—”

“I told you to stay here.” Ghost’s tone left no room for argument, oblivious to Soap’s thoughts, so close, Soap could only pick up his scent, strong and masculine, like a dangerous and poisonous drug yet so addictive. It filled his nostrils, Soap had to stop himself from sniffing like a bloody dog, hungry for more.

But in an instant, the fog cleared and crimson filled Soap’s field of vision when he registered Ghost’s words. The lines of the street blurred, and the center of focus became the monstrous man in front of him. Nothing but him existed in that moment, only the two of them standing there remained. “I made a call,” Soap snapped, louder this time. Anger sharpened his voice, but beneath it, he felt the tremor threatening to break through. Why was he into this?

“You nearly got yourself killed.” The mask tilted, a shadow darker than the night itself. “You call that a call?” Ghost stepped even closer, and the air between them shrank, heavy and suffocating. Soap had to raise his head to meet Ghost’s dark, almost black, gaze. Where did the soft whiskey disappear? His chest ached with the force of his breathing. He hated the way his knees wanted to buckle, hated that Ghost’s presence could peel him wide open like this. His arm throbbed, blood slicking through his shirt. He shifted his weight, trying to hide the stumble of his step. “I call that sloppy.”

“That’s cold.” He tried to fight the hurt that swelled in his chest, from the pain of the knife or the wound Ghost inflicted, Soap didn’t know. He only knew there was something seriously fucked up in him. Something had taken root in those three days he met this man, something twisted and utterly rotten.

Ghost’s hand shot out, clamping around his wounded arm. Pain immediately ripped through him, white-hot and uncontrollably Soap whimpered, the sound echoed louder than any gunfire could have. In response, Ghost froze. His grip loosened instantly. For a moment, the fury drained, replaced by something else. Something uncertain and soft. Soap almost whimpered a second time. Gods, how he missed that look.

“Fuck.” The word was quiet, stripped bare, almost gentle if it were whispered under a different situation. His dark eyes flicked around the street, searching, then his hand slid down, firm but careful, tugging Soap forward. “Move.”

Soap didn’t argue. He let himself be pulled, half-dragged, boots scraping over broken glass. Ghost led them fast, weaving through alleys like he knew them by heart, until they found another pocket of shadow, an empty street corner tucked behind a crumbling wall. Only then did Ghost let go of Soap’s arm. Soap cursed himself for instantly missing that rough touch. He slumped against the wall, pressing his palm to his arm. The blood seeped through anyway, sticky and warm. His breath came in ragged bursts, his head light. But Ghost didn’t let him gather his bearings, he crouched low in front of him, pulling out his kit. His hands moved quick, sure. Gauze torn open. Antiseptic snapped free. “Hold still.”

Soap tried to smirk, tried to crack some flippant line, but the pain stole the air from his chest. He stayed quiet, letting Ghost work in silence. The sting fucking burned. He clenched his jaw, hissing through his teeth, but Ghost didn’t pause or blink. His hands were steady, his touch rough only where it had to be. He pressed, wrapped, tied, all without hesitation. Those hands, minutes ago toyed with death, gently healed and cared. Soap’s gaze flicked upward, and for the first time, he let himself truly look.

The mask was still there, but the light caught details it usually swallowed. The eyelashes, pale, golden? against the dark paint. The way Ghost’s jaw clenched too tight, muscles twitching with effort. The faint tremor in his large forearm, not weakness, but restraint. Soap’s chest tightened, he swallowed hard, heart hammering.

“Who hurt you?”

The words slipped out before he could stop them, quiet but cutting, meant for himself alone. But then Ghost lifted his head, and for a heartbeat Soap immediately recognized that look.

---

His childhood in Glasgow was gray and mostly full of bad days, until one day she came and changed everything. A young woman, barely eighteen years old with the smile and face of an angel. On that damned day, their eyes crossed, her family moving into the neighborhood, his eyes met hers; a pair of black, beautiful and large eyes, that penetrated his soul and burned him from the inside. John, till this day, had never seen eyes like hers, their dark shade was so bewitching and within it shone thousands of stars, eyes so captivating and pure that he fell for them in an instant. Her face was as beautiful and warm as the sun in mid-August, and from that moment he was forever captivated in her arms. Following her every step in the neighborhood, trying his best to make her happy, taking her out, spending the little money he had, she was his drug and his medicine, she was the siren in the middle of the ocean who conquered him with the melody of her delicate voice. She was there, all too beautiful, and he was a step closer to enlisting. His father made it clear that this attraction was a love wasted. But John loved her more than he loved to please his father. Or as they say... love makes us blind.

He was more than just blind, his senses blurred, all John saw was the happiness in her eyes that grew day by day, like the flower blossoms in the peak of spring. A peek into her big, black eyes, full of innocence, and all he wanted was to protect her, she was his treasure, the most precious treasure and his best-kept secret. Until she wasn’t. 

Secrets in Glasgow never stayed buried long. His father soon found out of his growing obsession, and when he did, the house turned cold as steel, not even his mother’s warmth could ease the ice. Words were exchanged that could never be taken back, threats spoken with fists clenched tight. The message was clear, John’s heart belonged to serving his country not to some girl with star-filled eyes. Within months, he signed the papers and enlisted. He told himself it was his choice, but even then, he knew it wasn’t. He left her on a rainy day, on that same gray street where they’d first met, left her standing there with tears carving lines down her cheeks. The last thing he saw of her were those black eyes, no longer filled with starlight but with something hollow, betrayed.

It was that exact same look he saw in those chocolate brown eyes. Not wide with innocence like hers had been, but cut with ancient fire, rimmed in pain. It impacted Soap all the same. Who filled this man with so much hatred and fury? Who had hugged him and stabbed him in the back at the same time?

When Ghost finally spoke, his voice was low, so low Soap almost thought he imagined it. “Doesn’t matter.”

But it did. Soap could see it in the stiffness of his shoulders, in the way his fingers lingered too long against his skin, in the flicker of something alive buried behind the black void of the skull mask. Soap swallowed hard, the ache in his arm forgotten beneath the weight of the moment. He didn’t press, though God knew he wanted to. The question still hung heavy between them, unanswered but not ignored, and in it lay the echo of a younger man, one who had once loved a girl with starlit eyes, and lost her to something bigger, colder, crueler. Maybe Ghost and her were the same. But maybe, Soap dared believe, this time the story will end differently, maybe those eyes will shine with thousands of stars once again.