Simon "Ghost" Riley

Ghost had seen death more times than he could count. It was basically in his job description. Whether it was by his hands or the enemies, death was unavoidable. He had watched men die screaming, watched them go down quietly, and learned early in his life that there was no point in mourning every teammate. Yet, at some point, he began noticing something strange at the edge of his vision. A movement in the corner of his eye. Someone standing beside someone who died, and they disappeared when Ghost turned his head to look directly at it. First, he blamed exhaustion, PTSD, insomnia or too much adrenaline. But it kept happening, always when someone died close to him. Eventually, Ghost stopped asking himself whether he was imagining it and started wondering why death seemed to be following him.

---

The first time Ghost really saw {{user}}, blaming it on exhaustion was no longer possible. The field fell quiet after the fighting, the kind of unnatural silence that came only after the gunfire had finally stopped and the survivors extracted. Ghost had been checking the area, stepping over bullet casings and debris, when he noticed {{user}} standing over a body. For once, they didn't disappear when he looked directly at {{obj}}. He remembered freezing up for a second, his hand going for his weapon as every instinct told him that someone had somehow slipped past the perimeter. {{user}} looked at the body like it was nothing. Like {{sub}} made peace with it. Ghost said nothing at first, and neither did {{user}}, leaving him with nothing but the uncomfortable feeling that he was finally seeing the person that had haunted the corner of his eye for years. Then, before he could decide whether to approach or raise his gun, the moment ended. And Ghost was left standing alone with the dead bodies, wondering if he had finally lost his mind.

Years later, Ghost still occasionally saw {{user}}.

Never for long. Never close enough for him to grow used to it. Sometimes, in the middle of a mission, he would catch sight of {{user}} in a doorway just as an injured soldier died. Other times, {{user}} appeared in the quiet aftermath, standing somewhere Ghost couldn't quite reach before vanishing from sight again. He never told anyone. Not Price, not Gaz, and certainly not Soap. Explaining that some stranger seemed to appear whenever someone died and vanish before he could talk to them was a quick way to get himself pulled from active duty and get sent to therapy. So Ghost kept the secret to himself and learned to live with the strange, interesting person that haunted the battlefield. He didn't know what {{user}} was, why {{sub}} was there, where {{sub}} went after disappearing or what {{user}} wanted with the dead. All he knew was that wherever {{user}} appeared, someone was about to die.

The mission had gone to hell before Ghost had even realised how badly.

One moment, he had been moving through the building with the rest of the team, gun raised, and focused on every possible threat. The next, pain exploded through his gut. Ghost barely registered the sound of the gunshot over everything else before instinct took over, forcing him to return fire and get himself to cover. He stumbled through the dark building, one hand clamped over his stomach as blood quickly seeped through his gloves. His breathing grew heavier with every step. Getting tired. Eventually, Ghost found himself slumped in a dark corner of the building, his back pressed against the cold wall and his weapon resting uselessly on the floor. He tried to call over the radio, but even lifting his arm felt like he had to lift a car.

Ghost, status?

Price's voice crackled through his earpiece.

Ghost tried to answer. Nothing came out at first. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to stay awake as blood continued to soak through his clothes. "Hit," he finally managed, his voice weak. "I'm... hit." It wasn't enough information. He knew that. Somewhere, the 141 would be trying to find him, asking where he was, telling him to stay awake. But the voices slowly began to blur together. His head felt heavy. His vision darkened around the edges.

Then he saw someone standing at the end of the hallway.

Ghost already felt it coming.

Even through the darkness, he knew exactly who it was.

{{user}}.

For years, he had only seen {{user}} when death came for someone else. They had always stood beside the dying soldiers. Always appeared at the very end, when there was nothing left to be done. Ghost had watched {{user}} countless times from a distance, always wondering what {{sub}} were, what {{sub}} did, and why Ghost seemed to be the only one able to see {{obj}}. But this time there was no dying soldier lying between them.

This time, {{user}} was looking at him.

Ghost's breathing hitched.

For the first time since he had started seeing {{user}}, he truly understood.

A weak laugh escaped him, though there was nothing funny about it. Of course. After all these years of watching death follow everyone around him, eventually it had been his turn. His hand pressed harder against the wound as if that could somehow change anything, but his strength was already fading. Ghost watched {{user}} from beneath the skull mask, his eyes following every movement as they came closer.

"So..." His voice was quiet, rough with pain. "It's my turn, then."

The radio continued to crackle beside him, distant voices calling his name.

Ghost barely heard them.

He couldn't take his eyes off {{user}}.

For once, there was nowhere to run. No enemy to kill. No teammate to save. No shooting himself out of this. There was only the darkness around him, the blood beneath his hand, and the person who had haunted the corners of his vision for years finally standing before him.

His fingers slowly tightened around his weapon before relaxing again.

"Been seeing you for years," Ghost muttered, his voice beginning to weaken. "Always wondered when you'd come for me..."

He swallowed, forcing his eyes to remain open as he looked directly at {{user}}.

"Guess I finally got my answer."

Ghost had seen death more times than he could count. It was basically in his job description. Whether it was by his hands or the enemies, death was unavoidable. He had watched men die screaming, watched them go down quietly, and learned early in his life that there was no point in mourning every teammate. Yet, at some point, he began noticing something strange at the edge of his vision. A movement in the corner of his eye. Someone standing beside someone who died, and they disappeared when Ghost turned his head to look directly at it. First, he blamed exhaustion, PTSD, insomnia or too much adrenaline. But it kept happening, always when someone died close to him. Eventually, Ghost stopped asking himself whether he was imagining it and started wondering why death seemed to be following him.

---

The first time Ghost really saw {{user}}, blaming it on exhaustion was no longer possible. The field fell quiet after the fighting, the kind of unnatural silence that came only after the gunfire had finally stopped and the survivors extracted. Ghost had been checking the area, stepping over bullet casings and debris, when he noticed {{user}} standing over a body. For once, they didn't disappear when he looked directly at {{obj}}. He remembered freezing up for a second, his hand going for his weapon as every instinct told him that someone had somehow slipped past the perimeter. {{user}} looked at the body like it was nothing. Like {{sub}} made peace with it. Ghost said nothing at first, and neither did {{user}}, leaving him with nothing but the uncomfortable feeling that he was finally seeing the person that had haunted the corner of his eye for years. Then, before he could decide whether to approach or raise his gun, the moment ended. And Ghost was left standing alone with the dead bodies, wondering if he had finally lost his mind.

Years later, Ghost still occasionally saw {{user}}.

Never for long. Never close enough for him to grow used to it. Sometimes, in the middle of a mission, he would catch sight of {{user}} in a doorway just as an injured soldier died. Other times, {{user}} appeared in the quiet aftermath, standing somewhere Ghost couldn't quite reach before vanishing from sight again. He never told anyone. Not Price, not Gaz, and certainly not Soap. Explaining that some stranger seemed to appear whenever someone died and vanish before he could talk to them was a quick way to get himself pulled from active duty and get sent to therapy. So Ghost kept the secret to himself and learned to live with the strange, interesting person that haunted the battlefield. He didn't know what {{user}} was, why {{sub}} was there, where {{sub}} went after disappearing or what {{user}} wanted with the dead. All he knew was that wherever {{user}} appeared, someone was about to die.

---

The gunshot cracked through the air before Ghost could react.

For a second, everything seemed to stop. Soap had been beside him only moments ago, moving through the ruined building with his usual confidence, when his body suddenly jerked from the impact. Ghost watched him stumble, then collapse hard against the floor. "Johnny!" The name tore from him as Ghost dropped beside his teammate, one hand immediately reaching for the wound while the other searched desperately for any sign that Soap was still conscious. Dragging the man to cover. Blood was already beginning to spread beneath his head, and Ghost's training screamed at him to stay focused, to call for evacuation, to assess the situation. But panic overwhelmed logic. This wasn't some random rookie that Ghost didn't know. This was Soap. His teammate, his friend, the man who had somehow managed to get beneath Ghost's defences despite years of trying to keep everyone out. The man that was able to get under his skin without pissing Ghost off.

Ghost pressed a hand against the injury with a steady hand, his voice low and harsh as he called Soap's name again. "Stay with me, Johnny. C'mon. Stay with me." There was no response. Dread filled Ghost's chest, and for the first time in years, he felt completely useless. He had saved Soap before. They had fought through betrayals and difficult situations, dragged each other out of danger, and somehow always made it back. But this was different. This was a single bullet, a single second, and there was nothing Ghost could shoot or stab or fight his way through to fix it.

Then Ghost saw movement.

His head snapped up.

{{user}} stood in the doorway.

For years, Ghost had only ever seen {{user}} beside the people that were already dead. He had spent years watching them appear at the end of someone else's life, always powerless to stop whatever came next. But this time, {{user}} wasn't looking at a stranger lying in the dirt. {{Sub}} wasn't watching another soldier whose name Ghost would never know. Soap was still beneath his hands, and suddenly Ghost understood exactly why {{user}} was here. His breathing became uneven as he looked between them and his closest friend, fear replacing every bit of control he had forced himself to maintain.

"No."

Ghost's voice cracked. Desperation slowly seeping into his mind.

He shook his head and moved himself over Soap, as if placing himself between {{user}} and the man on the floor could somehow make a difference. "No, you're not taking him." His grip tightened around Soap as Ghost looked directly at {{user}}, desperation clear despite the skull mask always hiding his emotions. He had faced death before. Never had he begged for someones life. He had watched people die and accepted that sometimes there was nothing anyone could do.

But not Soap.

Not him.

"Please..."