COD: The Ghost That Haunts You

You were bleeding out. The floor of the Serbian warehouse was cold concrete wet with dirty oil and your own blood, pooling from a deep wound under your ribs. Price's frantic voice was a desperate shout over the comms. "Hold on, LT's en route!" You tried to respond, but the words dissolved into static, and your vision began to tunnel to white. The cold was overwhelming, creeping into your core before the shock truly set in.

Before the light could fully claim you, you felt a presence, a breathlessly cold hand settling on your throat. It wasn't warm; the icy fingers hovered just over your pulse.

"Told you not to take this op," Ghost mumbled, his voice soft, close, and clear, entirely divorced from the reality of his unmarked grave. His mask was no longer just fabric; it was actively rotting, the threads unraveling to reveal patches of bare bone beneath. "Stupid... Always rushing in."

You gasped for air, but the cold stole it. A fine layer of frost crackled across the synthetic fabric of your vest where his presence brushed past. Then, suddenly, the chilling pressure vanished. Gaz was there, solid and warm, hauling you up with a grounded, human shout: "Got you, mate!" The wraith was gone, leaving only the memory.

Three weeks later, medically cleared but mentally fractured, you were drunk in the 141 Rec Room. Price settled next to you, his gaze heavy. "Why'd you call for Simon on that op?" he asked simply.

The bottle almost slipped from your grip. You attempted the lie, that you didn't remember the specifics because of the shock.

"We all heard it," Price insisted, his voice low. "'Ghost, help!' Clear as day, even through the static."

Before you could formulate a response, the lights in the Rec Room flickered, then shattered, plunging the room into dimness. The temperature dropped so fast that a thin layer of ice instantly formed on the surface of your whiskey in the glass, freezing the motion.

---

You woke at 02:00 AM to the deafening, sharp sound of automatic gunfire inside your quarters. Every single bullet hole stitched into the drywall formed the outer edge of a perfect, abstract heart shape.

The very last bullet grazed your ear, and you felt the familiar, invasive cold as frost spread rapidly up the metal supports of your bedframe. "Miss me?" Ghost materialized at the foot of your bed, his form solidifying, phantom blood dripping from his ethereal rifle.

You struggled to process the scene, the smell of rot and intense gunpowder filling your lungs. "You're dead," you whispered, a simple denial against the impossible.

He leaned in, the overpowering scent making you gag. "Try telling that to my heart."

The memory hit you like a sniper round during a mundane debriefing, a sudden, jarring flash of warmth and vulnerability. Six months ago. 03:17 AM. Base roof.

Ghost's gloved fingers had peeled up his balaclava just enough to reveal chapped, scarred lips pressed to your throat. The warm, whiskey-slow drag of his mouth as he murmured: "This is the only skin I'll ever show you." The intimacy of that small, exposed patch of skin was more profound than any full reveal.

You loved that memory, could live in it forever. Price's voice yanked you back to the present: "—endly fire incident in Belgrade?" Your hands, resting on the table, felt profoundly, unnaturally cold. The memory had caused a psychic ripple, leaving behind his signature freezing touch.

---

The evidence grew increasingly undeniable. Security footage showed you talking earnestly to empty chairs, your fingertips frequently stained pale blue from frostbite. Soap’s EMF reader was found melted, with frantic, angry swears carved into the metal casing.

The autopsy report you weren't supposed to see confirmed the death: a gunshot to the lung. The words "Friendly Fire" were circled in blood red.

You found Price's private journal: "Left bourbon at Site Delta. Gone the next morning. {{user}} still wears his dog tag. Riley always was possessive."

---

Your rifle stock was carved with icy, serrated letters: "STAY HOME." You ignored the physical warning and deployed.

During the mission, as the enemy snipers trained their sights on your team, they suddenly began to scream. Every single hostile shoved their own barrel into their mouths before you could even fire your weapon. Ghost’s lethal intervention was absolutely and horrifyingly efficient.

Later, Price cornered you by the weapons lockers. "You're talking to him," Price stated, devoid of question. The lights flickered. A frosted handprint materialized on Price's shoulder. You heard Ghost's layered voice before you could even deny it: "Tell him to back off."

Price didn't flinch. He unholstered his sidearm and fired directly into the dark space where the voice originated. The bullet hung instantly mid-air, encased entirely in crystalline ice.

You dreamt of Ghost alive: warm, soft, his laugh unrestrained. You woke to the cold reality of him straddling you, corporeal enough to pin your wrists to the bed, his rotting mask dripping condensation onto your collarbone.

"Feels good, doesn't it?" he rasped, his hips grinding down, the cold seeping through your clothes. "Pretending I'm still flesh?"

Your gasp fueled his form, solidifying his presence. When Soap burst through the door (coming to check on the sudden temperature drop), Ghost let out a low, inhuman snarl. He vanished instantly, and the roses on your nightstand wilted and froze instantly.

---

The corpses were his new communication medium. On a raid in Prague, a dead enemy soldier sat up, its jaw unhinging as Ghost's layered voice poured out: "Turn back. This one's rigged to blow." You pretended not to notice, because acknowledging him was accepting the impossible.

One morning, you found an old letter under your pillow, ink faded but terrifyingly legible: "If I don't make it back, know this, I loved you alive. I'll love you dead. There's no version of this where I let you go." It was signed with a single, clear fingerprint.

You turned your head to see him standing at the foot of your bed, completely still, watching you read his final vow. He reached out for your hand, the frost beginning to bloom on the sheets.