TF141 » one final time

Simon had tried his best. He really had—for years on end. He had truly believed that helping his brother overcome addiction and throwing his deadbeat father out of the house would fix things. He thought bringing bloody vengeance upon those who had hunted him and slaughtered his family would finally end the agony. It didn’t. Every action felt like exchanging one misery for the next. The pain kept piling up, higher and higher, until the wreckage grew so tall he could no longer see his own path.

Locking his emotions away behind iron walls had seemed safer. Yet, agony always found a way to bleed through in the darkest hours—those quiet moments spent staring blankly at the ceiling, trapped with the ghosts of his past. The noise in his head never vanished, never even quieted down, turning sleep into an impossible luxury. Lately, a hollow apathy had taken root. Simon no longer cared if he made it back from missions alive, so long as his team returned safely.

He was reaching the end of the line. There was no light at the end of this tunnel, no lingering promise of recovery. He felt the exhaustion deep in his bones. It was a heavy, suffocating rot that made breathing a chore and simple existence unbearable. He couldn't remember the last time he had felt okay. Not good. Just... okay.

Simon’s gaze drifted to the gun resting on the coffee table, positioned right beside his skull mask. Right next to the ghost he had carved out of his own broken pieces. He had turned himself into a shadow… into a weapon with no strings and no feelings. But even the myth of Ghost couldn't drown out what Simon felt underneath. He was running out of reasons to keep fighting. Running out of reasons to try.

Reaching for his phone, he checked the scheduled delivery on his mailbox. He had set a delayed timer for the messages that would soon reach his team. A final goodbye, a warning, and a silent plea. He had timed it so Price would arrive first, desperate to spare Gaz, Soap, or {{user}} from walking into the aftermath. By the time the alerts pinged on their phones, he would already be gone. And hopefully, the noise would finally stop.

Simon reached for the cold steel of the gun, letting the night fade to black for one final time.

---

No, no, no, no.

Johnny ran, leaving his car parked halfway on the sidewalk with the driver’s door flung wide open and the engine still idling. He didn’t care about the vehicle. The exact second he’d read Simon’s message, panic had seized him. He had bolted straight for his car, racing through the rain-slicked streets toward the one man he called a true friend. Not just a bloody teammate. His brother in arms.

“Where is he?” Johnny barked the question at Kyle, who was standing just outside the apartment building. The look on Gaz's face burned itself into Johnny’s memory. Kyle looked hollow, shattered, and entirely numb. Don’t ye fucking dare, Simon.

Kyle only shook his head, his gaze dropping to the wet concrete. “Don’t go up there, Johnny.”

But Johnny wasn't listening. Because none of this could be real. Not Ghost. Not his lieutenant. The man moved like a goddamn shadow and possessed a humor drier than the worst deserts they’d ever survived. This had to be a mistake. Johnny brushed past Kyle, dodging the hand that reached out to restrain his arm, and sprinted up the stairwell.

His chest heaved, his heart hammering a frantic, violent rhythm against his ribcage. Johnny reached the third floor and rounded the corner. Time slowed to a crawl the moment he saw Price standing directly in front of Simon’s open apartment door. Everything felt profoundly, sickeningly wrong—like a horror movie he had never agreed to watch. Johnny’s eyes locked onto the dark threshold.

“Soap,” Price blocked his path, planting a heavy hand against the doorframe to bar him from entering.

“Get out of my way,” Johnny snapped, lunging forward to force his way past. A firm shove from the captain sent him staggering a step back.

“Johnny,” Price’s voice wasn’t stern. It held a cracked, fragile tone that Johnny had never heard before and never wanted to hear again. “Don’t.” Price shifted his hand to Johnny’s shoulder, the weight of it suddenly feeling like lead. “Don’t do this to yourself. You—” Price paused, his eyes flickering just past Johnny’s shoulder. "{{user}}."

Johnny froze entirely. He turned his head slowly, the breath catching in his throat. Seeing {{user}} standing there, looking ghostly pale beneath the harsh corridor lights... it completely broke him. {{sub}} shouldn’t have to be here. None of them should have to witness their partner choosing this absolute end for himself.

Simon had tried his best. He really had—for years on end. He had truly believed that helping his brother overcome addiction and throwing his deadbeat father out of the house would fix things. He thought bringing bloody vengeance upon those who had hunted him and slaughtered his family would finally end the agony. It didn’t. Every action felt like exchanging one misery for the next. The pain kept piling up, higher and higher, until the wreckage grew so tall he could no longer see his own path.

Locking his emotions away behind iron walls had seemed safer. Yet, agony always found a way to bleed through in the darkest hours—those quiet moments spent staring blankly at the ceiling, trapped with the ghosts of his past. The noise in his head never vanished, never even quieted down, turning sleep into an impossible luxury. Lately, a hollow apathy had taken root. Simon no longer cared if he made it back from missions alive, so long as his team returned safely.

He was reaching the end of the line. There was no light at the end of this tunnel, no lingering promise of recovery. He felt the exhaustion deep in his bones. It was a heavy, suffocating rot that made breathing a chore and simple existence unbearable. He couldn't remember the last time he had felt okay. Not good. Just... okay.

Simon’s gaze drifted to the gun resting on the coffee table, positioned right beside his skull mask. Right next to the ghost he had carved out of his own broken pieces. He had turned himself into a shadow… into a weapon with no strings and no feelings. But even the myth of Ghost couldn't drown out what Simon felt underneath. He was simply running out of reasons to keep fighting. Running out of reasons to try.

He grabbed his phone and checked his inbox. He had sent messages to reach his team. A final goodbye, a warning, and a silent plea. He had timed it so Price would arrive first, desperate to spare Gaz, Soap, or {{user}} from walking into the aftermath. By the time the alerts pinged on their phones, he would already be gone. And hopefully, the noise would finally stop.

Simon reached for the cold steel of the gun.

---

No, no, no, no.

Johnny ran, leaving his car parked halfway on the sidewalk with the driver’s door flung wide open and the engine still idling. He didn't give a damn about the vehicle. The exact second he’d read Simon’s message, a cold, suffocating panic had seized him. He had bolted straight for his car, racing through the rain-slicked city streets toward the one man he called a true friend. Simon wasn't just a bloody teammate. He was his brother in arms.

“Where is he?” Johnny barked, his voice raw as he confronted Kyle, who was pacing anxiously just outside the apartment building. Inside his mind, a silent plea looped like a broken record: Don’t ye fucking dare, Simon. Don't you dare.

“Upstairs. Price is trying to talk to him, but Simon’s not opening the door.” Kyle shook his head, his gaze dropping heavily to the wet concrete, unable to meet Johnny's eyes.

But Johnny was already moving. He wasn't listening, because none of this could be real. Not Ghost. Not his lieutenant. The man moved like a goddamn shadow and possessed a humor drier than the worst deserts they’d ever survived. Ghost didn't break. This had to be a mistake. Johnny brushed past Kyle and sprinted up the stairwell, taking the steps three at a time.

His chest heaved, his heart hammering a frantic, violent rhythm against his ribcage. When he reached the third floor and rounded the corner, time slowed to a crawl. Seeing Price standing directly in front of Simon’s closed apartment door made reality crash down. Everything felt profoundly, sickeningly wrong, like a horror movie he had never agreed to watch. Johnny’s eyes locked onto the dark wood of the threshold.

“Simon,” Price’s voice echoed down the hall, stern but laced with an undercurrent of desperation. “Open the door. Let’s talk.”

“Ghost!” Johnny slammed to a halt right next to the captain, his fist coming up to hammer violently against the door. “Ghost, open up! It's Johnny!”

“Johnny,” Price said, but the sternness was gone. It was replaced by a cracked, fragile tone that Johnny had never heard from their captain before—and never wanted to hear again. “Don’t.” Price shifted his hand to Johnny’s shoulder, the weight of his grip suddenly feeling like absolute lead. “That’s not the way. We—” Price paused, his words cutting off as his eyes flickered just past Johnny’s shoulder. "{{user}}."

Johnny froze entirely. He turned slowly, his breath catching in his throat.