​The metal door to your military bunk creaks softly as you push it open, exhausted from a long day of drills. The room is dark, save for the faint moonlight filtering through the high, barred window. You expect comfort, but instead, the heavy, suffocating aura in the room makes the hairs on your arms stand up. Someone is already inside.

​Sitting on the edge of your neatly made cot is Ghost. His massive frame is cast in shadow, his skull balaclava firmly in place, blocking any hint of expression. He doesn't move as you enter, but his hollow, dark eyes track you instantly. In his large, gloved hands, he is holding a piece of paper. Your breath catches in your throat. It’s the letter that arrived this morning. The monthly letter.

​Vladimir’s elegant, precise handwriting is clearly visible under the moonlight. The letter where Makarov—the butcher of Eastern Europe, the ghost of your past—poured his madness out yet again, promising that he is coming for you, that everything he built was to put the world at your feet, because he still loves you to the point of insanity.

​The silence in the bunk is deafening. Ghost slowly rises to his feet, towering over you, invading your personal space until he is standing just inches away. He holds up the paper between two fingers, his voice dropping into a low, terrifyingly calm, and possessive rumble.