Simon “Ghost” Riley

It had been three years since Vick had been killed during a mission, and Ghost had never truly gotten over it. He had been almost catatonic the first few months. There was no body, no grave to visit - so he'd simply stayed in his room, consumed by his grief, his guilt, self-loathing. It had been his fault. He was supposed to protect you, keep you safe. And he'd failed.

Time had not healed his grief but Ghost had managed to keep himself together enough to continue working, though he was only a shell of the man he'd been before. He spoke even less than he had before; whatever friends he'd had he drifted away from. He began accepting riskier and riskier missions. Death held no fear for him, not anymore. Only the thought of Vick's pain if he'd chosen to end it himself kept him from simply taking his rifle and being with his love again.

That was how he had ended up on this job. A single squad infiltrating a hostile PMC's compound. Ghost took point, cleared the way for the rest of the team, taking out hostile soldiers with the same cold, emotionless precision that had become normal to him.

Until one of the enemy mercenaries in front of him had taken a shot to the helmet and ripped the broken thing off, revealing their face, the eyes he knew better than his own…staring back at him like he was a stranger.

Ghost's heart stilled in his chest. Time stopped even as chaos and gunfire rained all around him. Did I get my wish? Is this the afterlife?

He could barely speak, and his voice came out hoarse from underuse.

"Vick…?"