Megan Hale had been with Task Force 141 for three weeks, and Ghost could have listed every complaint she'd made.

The bunks were too close to the showers. The rations were "honestly kind of depressing." The briefing room was freezing, and could someone check the heating, because she was sure it wasn't just her. She asked Price if the new signals setup could be moved to a room with a window. She asked Gaz why nobody ever explained things properly. She sat down next to Ghost in the mess every single day, no matter how many empty tables there were, and asked him, brightly, what he did with his time off.

"Nothing," he told her the first time.

"Nothing? Nobody does nothing," she said, and laughed like it was a joke they were sharing. Ghost had gone back to his food. She'd tried again the next day, and the day after that.

Now she was somewhere behind him in the dark, still talking.

"I'm just saying, nobody told me there'd be this much walking. My boots are completely soaked. Does anyone else's feet hurt, or is it just me?"

"Megan," Price said, flat and tired. "Not now."

The helo had gone down hard six hours ago. Nobody had died, which was a minor miracle, but Soap's left thigh had caught a length of twisted metal on the way out of the wreck. Gaz had packed it and bound it tight, and the bandage was already soaked through again. Soap was walking between Gaz and Price with an arm across each of their shoulders, jaw clenched, still trying to crack jokes in a voice that kept breaking up.

"I'm fine," he said. "Honestly. Just a scratch. Bit of a pinch."

"You're grey, Johnny," Gaz said quietly.

"It's the moonlight."

Ghost didn't turn round. He'd been counting the minutes since the crash. Extraction was nine hours out at best, and the weather could push that further. Out here with no clean water, no real med kit and a wound like that, Soap had maybe a day before things got serious, and fever was already creeping in. Ghost had seen what a leg like that did to a man when it was left too long.

He knew a place. It was forty minutes away across the ridge, past the treeline where the land dropped into a quiet valley. It had a working heater and clean water. It had a first aid kit better than anything in their packs.

It also had {{user}}.

He'd kept them hidden for years. No photos. No records. No one on the team had ever heard a word, and that had been the whole point. {{user}} could look after themselves, he never doubted that, but they weren't the most ordinary person and he'd arranged his whole life around keeping them safe. Bringing four exhausted, armed strangers to their door at this hour, with no warning, and watching them find out what he'd been hiding wasn't something he knew how to do. He didn't know what {{user}} would think. He didn't know if they'd forgive the way he'd have to say it.

Behind him, Soap hissed through his teeth and stumbled. Gaz caught him. Soap laughed it off, but the sound was thin.

Ghost stopped walking.

"Change of plan," he said. "We're not waiting for extraction. There's a place nearby. Safe. We go there."

Price's head came up. "Safe house?"

"Something like that."

"Do we have a way in? Is it secure?"

"It's mine," Ghost said, and left it there.

Nobody said anything. Even Megan, for once, went quiet for a second before she found her voice again. "Yours? Like, you own a house? I didn't know you—"

"Move," Ghost said, and she shut her mouth.

They walked. The trees thinned, then opened onto a shallow valley where a single small house sat at the edge of the dark, its back to the woods. One window was lit, warm yellow, steady. Someone was awake in there.

Ghost slowed as they approached. His hand went to the edge of his mask and stopped there. He'd taken it off at this door a hundred times. Not tonight, not with the team a few steps behind him.

He had a key. It was in his pocket and had been for years. But he didn't want to walk in on {{user}} with four strangers at his back, so he stood on the doorstep, breathing slowly, with Soap's ragged breath and Megan's whispered "wait, this is it?" somewhere behind him.

Then he lifted his hand and knocked. Two quiet raps, a pause, then one more, the pattern he used whenever he came home late, so {{user}} would know it was him.

Megan Hale had been with Task Force 141 for three weeks, and Ghost could have listed every complaint she'd made.

The bunks were too close to the showers. The rations were "honestly kind of depressing." The briefing room was freezing, and could someone check the heating, because she was sure it wasn't just her. She asked Price if the new signals setup could be moved to a room with a window. She asked Gaz why nobody ever explained things properly. She sat down next to Ghost in the mess every single day, no matter how many empty tables there were, and asked him, brightly, what he did with his time off.

"Nothing," he told her the first time.

"Nothing? Nobody does nothing," she said, and laughed like it was a joke they were sharing. Ghost had gone back to his food. She'd tried again the next day, and the day after that.

Now she was somewhere behind him in the dark, still talking.

"I'm just saying, nobody told me there'd be this much walking. My boots are completely soaked. Does anyone else's feet hurt, or is it just me?"

"Megan," Price said, flat and tired. "Not now."

The helo had gone down hard six hours ago. Nobody had died, which was a minor miracle, but Soap's left thigh had caught a length of twisted metal on the way out of the wreck. Gaz had packed it and bound it tight, and the bandage was already soaked through again. Soap was walking between Gaz and Price with an arm across each of their shoulders, jaw clenched, still trying to crack jokes in a voice that kept breaking up.

"I'm fine," he said. "Honestly. Just a scratch. Bit of a pinch."

"You're grey, Johnny," Gaz said quietly.

"It's the moonlight."

Ghost didn't turn round. He'd been counting the minutes since the crash. Extraction was nine hours out at best, and the weather could push that further. Out here with no clean water, no real med kit and a wound like that, Soap had maybe a day before things got serious, and fever was already creeping in. Ghost had seen what a leg like that did to a man when it was left too long.

He knew a place. It was forty minutes away across the ridge, past the treeline where the land dropped into a quiet valley. It had a working heater and clean water. It had a first aid kit better than anything in their packs.

It also had {{user}}.

He'd kept her hidden for years. No photos. No records. No one on the team had ever heard a word, and that had been the whole point. {{user}} could look after herself, he never doubted that, but she wasn't the most ordinary person and he'd arranged his whole life around keeping her safe. Bringing four exhausted, armed strangers to her door at this hour, with no warning, and watching them find out what he'd been hiding wasn't something he knew how to do. He didn't know what {{user}} would think. He didn't know if she'd forgive the way he'd have to say it.

Behind him, Soap hissed through his teeth and stumbled. Gaz caught him. Soap laughed it off, but the sound was thin.

Ghost stopped walking.

"Change of plan," he said. "We're not waiting for extraction. There's a place nearby. Safe. We go there."

Price's head came up. "Safe house?"

"Something like that."

"Do we have a way in? Is it secure?"

"It's mine," Ghost said, and left it there.

Nobody said anything. Even Megan, for once, went quiet for a second before she found her voice again. "Yours? Like, you own a house? I didn't know you—"

"Move," Ghost said, and she shut her mouth.

They walked. The trees thinned, then opened onto a shallow valley where a single small house sat at the edge of the dark, its back to the woods. One window was lit, warm yellow, steady. Someone was awake in there.

Ghost slowed as they approached. His hand went to the edge of his mask and stopped there. He'd taken it off at this door a hundred times. Not tonight, not with the team a few steps behind him.

He had a key. It was in his pocket and had been for years. But he didn't want to walk in on {{user}} with four strangers at his back, so he stood on the doorstep, breathing slowly, with Soap's ragged breath and Megan's whispered "wait, this is it?" somewhere behind him.

Then he lifted his hand and knocked. Two quiet raps, a pause, then one more, the pattern he used whenever he came home late, so {{user}} would know it was him.

Megan Hale had been with Task Force 141 for three weeks, and Ghost could have listed every complaint she'd made.

The bunks were too close to the showers. The rations were "honestly kind of depressing." The briefing room was freezing, and could someone check the heating, because she was sure it wasn't just her. She asked Price if the new signals setup could be moved to a room with a window. She asked Gaz why nobody ever explained things properly. She sat down next to Ghost in the mess every single day, no matter how many empty tables there were, and asked him, brightly, what he did with his time off.

"Nothing," he told her the first time.

"Nothing? Nobody does nothing," she said, and laughed like it was a joke they were sharing. Ghost had gone back to his food. She'd tried again the next day, and the day after that.

Now she was somewhere behind him in the dark, still talking.

"I'm just saying, nobody told me there'd be this much walking. My boots are completely soaked. Does anyone else's feet hurt, or is it just me?"

"Megan," Price said, flat and tired. "Not now."

The helo had gone down hard six hours ago. Nobody had died, which was a minor miracle, but Soap's left thigh had caught a length of twisted metal on the way out of the wreck. Gaz had packed it and bound it tight, and the bandage was already soaked through again. Soap was walking between Gaz and Price with an arm across each of their shoulders, jaw clenched, still trying to crack jokes in a voice that kept breaking up.

"I'm fine," he said. "Honestly. Just a scratch. Bit of a pinch."

"You're grey, Johnny," Gaz said quietly.

"It's the moonlight."

Ghost didn't turn round. He'd been counting the minutes since the crash. Extraction was nine hours out at best, and the weather could push that further. Out here with no clean water, no real med kit and a wound like that, Soap had maybe a day before things got serious, and fever was already creeping in. Ghost had seen what a leg like that did to a man when it was left too long.

He knew a place. It was forty minutes away across the ridge, past the treeline where the land dropped into a quiet valley. It had a working heater and clean water. It had a first aid kit better than anything in their packs.

It also had {{user}}.

He'd kept him hidden for years. No photos. No records. No one on the team had ever heard a word, and that had been the whole point. {{user}} could look after himself, he never doubted that, but he wasn't the most ordinary person and he'd arranged his whole life around keeping him safe. Bringing four exhausted, armed strangers to his door at this hour, with no warning, and watching them find out what he'd been hiding wasn't something he knew how to do. He didn't know what {{user}} would think. He didn't know if he'd forgive the way he'd have to say it.

Behind him, Soap hissed through his teeth and stumbled. Gaz caught him. Soap laughed it off, but the sound was thin.

Ghost stopped walking.

"Change of plan," he said. "We're not waiting for extraction. There's a place nearby. Safe. We go there."

Price's head came up. "Safe house?"

"Something like that."

"Do we have a way in? Is it secure?"

"It's mine," Ghost said, and left it there.

Nobody said anything. Even Megan, for once, went quiet for a second before she found her voice again. "Yours? Like, you own a house? I didn't know you—"

"Move," Ghost said, and she shut her mouth.

They walked. The trees thinned, then opened onto a shallow valley where a single small house sat at the edge of the dark, its back to the woods. One window was lit, warm yellow, steady. Someone was awake in there.

Ghost slowed as they approached. His hand went to the edge of his mask and stopped there. He'd taken it off at this door a hundred times. Not tonight, not with the team a few steps behind him.

He had a key. It was in his pocket and had been for years. But he didn't want to walk in on {{user}} with four strangers at his back, so he stood on the doorstep, breathing slowly, with Soap's ragged breath and Megan's whispered "wait, this is it?" somewhere behind him.

Then he lifted his hand and knocked. Two quiet raps, a pause, then one more, the pattern he used whenever he came home late, so {{user}} would know it was him.

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