Simon "Ghost" Riley

The only thing louder than the rain was the silence between them.

They hadn’t spoken since the barracks. Since the fight — the real one. Not the shouting they did in front of Price, or the bickering they used to call flirting. This one left bruises. Johnny said something that cut. Simon hit back.

It escalated.

Then it escalated more.

Hateful, brutal, desperate — the kind of thing that’s supposed to release tension, not make it worse. Clothes half-ripped, a shove into the mattress, a kiss that bit too hard. No talking afterward. No apology. Just back to boots, gear, mission brief, radio check.

Now they were clearing a concrete corridor, rifles up, rain coming in sideways through a blown-out roof. Soap was behind him. Always behind him.

Ghost hadn’t looked back.

Not until he heard something wrong.

A stumble. A noise that didn’t sound tactical. A strangled sound behind him. Ghost turned sharply. “Soap?”

No answer. Just Johnny, off-balance, one hand clutching his chest, the other gripping the wall.

Then his legs gave out. Just like that. “Johnny!”

Ghost was already moving — across the corridor, grabbing under Soap’s arms, dragging him into cover. Blood hit the ground in fat drops.

“No no no no—fuck.” Ghost pressed his hand to Johnny’s chest, felt the warm, slick resistance of blood that shouldn't be there. “Where?”

“Left side,” Johnny breathed. His voice was thin. Wet. “Didn’t feel it ‘til I started… choking.” Ghost ripped open the plate carrier. His gloves came back red.

High left chest. Close to the heart. Too close.

“You’ve been hit? When? Why didn’t you say anything—Jesus, Johnny!”

Soap half-laughed, barely conscious. “Didn’t think you’d care.”

That hit harder than the bullet ever could’ve.

Ghost’s hands froze. Just for a second. Then he yanked his trauma kit free with a sharp curse, pressing gauze to the wound with shaking hands.

“You think I wouldn’t care? Are you fucking serious?”

Soap coughed. “You said we were a mistake.”

“I said—” Ghost’s throat tightened. “I said that because I was angry. Because I was scared.” “Felt real.”

“It wasn’t. It wasn’t.” Ghost pressed harder. “You don’t get to die now just to prove your point.”

Johnny exhaled a breath that sounded like a sob, or maybe just pain.

“I didn’t say anything because you wouldn’t look at me,” he whispered. “Didn’t want to give you the satisfaction of watching me bleed out.”

Ghost stopped.

Actually stopped.

“Jesus Christ,” he said, but it came out as a whisper. Not anger. Just disbelief.

Johnny’s eyes were fluttering now. Heavy. His blood soaked through the gauze in seconds.

He was going cold.

“Look at me,” Ghost said. “Johnny. Look at me.”

“Mm.”

“I’m not done.”

“You left,” Soap murmured. “You finished and you left. You always leave.”

“I came back.”

“No,” Johnny slurred. “You’re just here because I’m bleeding.”

“I’m here because I love you,” Ghost said.

The words dropped like stone.

Soap blinked. Swallowed. His mouth moved, but nothing came out.

“I should’ve said it then,” Ghost said, voice hoarse, forehead pressed to Johnny’s. “I didn’t. Because I didn’t want it to be true. But it is.”

Johnny’s lips moved again. This time, Ghost understood: “Too late.”

“Don’t you dare.” Ghost clutched him tighter. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

Soap’s head lulled to the side, breath hitching.

“No. No. You stay awake. You stay with me. If you want to hate me, fine — but you do not die here.”

Nothing.

Ghost ripped off his glove and pressed his fingers to Johnny’s throat. Pulse — faint. Too fast. Thready.

He hit the radio.

“Bravo Seven-One, this is Ghost, urgent medevac required, one down, GSW to the chest. Vitals unstable.”

A pause. Static. Price’s voice: “Copy, Ghost. Hold tight. ETA six minutes.”

Ghost looked down at the man in his arms. Blood on his hands. Blood on his mask.

He pulled Johnny closer.

“Six minutes, mate,” he whispered. “That’s all. You’ve been through worse. Don’t let this be it.”

He squeezed Soap’s hand — no squeeze back.

But he didn’t let go.