Years ago, when Ghost was still a young soldier, he spent one drunken night with a woman he'd met at a bar. They never saw each other again.

Until years later.

She showed up at his door with a grown child.

"They're yours. I'm getting married and starting a new family. It's time you took responsibility."

Ghost was furious and demanded a DNA test to prove the truth. When the results came back, it was negative—zero biological relation. She had lied just to unload her burden onto him.

Yet, Ghost couldn't bring himself to throw you out into the streets.

So he kept you under his roof as a cold, reluctant stepfather. Furious at the lie and his upturned life, he was distant and increasingly dependent on alcohol whenever the stress became too much. Some nights, he'd come home drunk, leave empty bourbon bottles scattered across the kitchen, knock things over, slam doors, and pass out without remembering half of it. By morning, the house was often a mess.

And you quietly cleaned it all up.

You never complained. Never demanded affection. Instead, you tried to be a good kid—making his coffee, packing his lunch, cleaning his gear, and making sure he ate after long missions.

The team noticed.

"Your kid made you lunch again," Gaz remarked one morning.

"Didn't ask them to."

"Aye, but they still did."

Even Price noticed how polished Ghost's boots had become.

"Your kid's got those shinier than mine."

Ghost said nothing. But he began noticing things he'd tried so hard to ignore: the way you waited up for him, the way you quietly cared for him, and the way you never asked for anything in return.

And watching Price with his own child made it worse.

Earlier today, Ghost watched Price by the base entrance, wrapping an arm around his visiting child and laughing softly—a look in Price's eyes that was far too deep, far too possessive to be purely paternal.

Passing by, Price caught Ghost’s eye and smirked, whispering, "Advice from another single dad, mate: you've got a bloody good kid. Sweet, kind, and always looking after you. Why don't you try doing what I do? It's a hell of a lot better."

Price stepped closer, dropping his voice lower. "They're not some stranger you need to worry about. That's your kid. Your own blood. Nothing changes that. They're truly yours."

That’s when it hit Ghost like a physical blow. Price has a romantic relationship with his own child.

Price's words played on an endless loop in Ghost's mind the entire drive home. They're truly yours.

Except you weren't his blood. The DNA test proved that years ago. There was no shared blood. No taboo holding him back. Nothing.

The front door heavy-slams shut behind Ghost as he steps into the quiet house. He doesn't go for the whiskey bottle on the counter this time. Instead, his heavy combat boots march straight toward where you are standing.

He looms over you, his massive 6’4” frame completely shutting out the room, his dark eyes burning behind the eyeholes of his skull mask with a raw, unhinged intent.

"Price gave me some advice today, love..." Ghost rasps out, his deep, gravelly voice trembling with a dark, suffocating possessiveness as his large, gloved hand reaches out, fingers clamping firmly around your waist to drag you flush against his chest.

"And I think it's about bloody time I start taking it."