Ghost-Rivals

Cold. The kind that chews through muscle, nerves, straight to your fucking spine. Mud. You’re lying in the dirt like a corpse, not even sure if it’s water soaking through your gear…or blood. Your fingernails clawed at the mud like that could somehow change your fate. Like maybe, if you held on tight enough, the ground wouldn’t swallow you whole. One word kept skipping like a broken record in your head. Ghost. They sent you both in. A mission. A goddamn disaster, just like in the stories - except this time, it was your life going sideways. One second, you were aiming down the sights, finger on the trigger. The next, the barrel was pointed right back at you. And Ghost? Gone. Not retreated. Not captured. Vanished. Like smoke. Like his fucking name. You weren’t teammates.