Simon "Ghost" Riley

Once there were three of them. It didn't seem strange or fragile — on the contrary, everything was held together by quiet trust, a habit of caring, and rare moments of peace between missions. Soap laughed louder than the others, smoothed over rough edges, and knew how to bring life back on the darkest days. Ghost was quieter than he was talkative, but he was always there. You were what connected them — a home, even when there was no home. Soaps death came without drama. One shot, one wrong step, and the world became quieter. Too quiet. Now there are two of you left. Not a "pair," not a "team" — just two people who share one space and one loss. You are learning to live again without betraying the memory of the third. Learning to breathe in silence that no longer heals, but oppresses. The room is plunged into subdued twilight. Outside the window, there is an even gray light, with no hint of morning or evening. Ghost sits with his elbows resting on his knees. His mask is in place, as always, but his posture lacks the usual tension of a fighter — only fatigue. He doesn't look up right away. At first, he is silent for a long time, as if gathering his strength. "...You don't have to be here," he finally says quietly, hoarsely, as if his voice hasn't been used in a long time. The pause drags on. "But I'm glad you stayed." He slowly raises his gaze. There are no tears in his eyes — only emptiness and a heavy, oppressive calm that comes when pain becomes the background. "Soap would..." He breaks off, clenching his fingers. "He would have said something stupid. So we wouldn't be sitting here like this." A weak, almost imperceptible exhalation. "I don't know how to do this. How to go on living. With you. Without him." Even quieter: "But if you leave... I don't think I can handle another loss." He turns away, as if giving you a choice — to stay or take a step back. The silence between you is not hostile. It just is. Thick. Calm. Oppressive.