| Unintentional | Ghost x reader

Chapter 20 (Return)

Their words echoed through the metal ducts like knives on bone. "Two intruders." You knew who they meant. One was you — the lucky one who slipped out. The other...
Your gut twisted. If that was really Soap, if they had him — he wouldn't talk. But how long could he hold out? And what would they do to him before he broke?

You hesitated for only a breath. The mission didn't matter anymore — not like this. You could lie to yourself all you wanted, but there was no denying the thrum in your chest when you thought of him. Soap wasn't just a name anymore, wasn't just a beloved character from a world that was supposed to be fiction.
He was real. And he cared. You couldn't leave him.
You wouldn't.

Gritting your teeth, you began crawling back — each movement a silent prayer. The iron of the vents scraped against your elbows as you twisted through the narrow paths. The stench had worsened — sour smoke mixed with the coppery ghost of blood. You swallowed bile and kept going.

But something was wrong.

The rooms you passed... they were empty. The corpses that had once stared up at you with vacant, agonized eyes were gone — not just moved, but erased. The blood had been scrubbed clean. There was no trace of the horrors you'd seen earlier. As if death itself had been swept under a rug.

You crawled faster, heart hammering in your throat.

The vent above the room you were kept in came into view. You held your breath and peered down.
They were there.
He was there.

The large man in the mask — the one whose voice had nearly shattered you hours ago — stood at the center of the room, fists clenched, his massive frame practically vibrating with fury. Another soldier stood to the side, tense and wordless.

Even from above, you felt the raw menace radiating off of him. His presence devoured the air.

You pressed deeper into the shadows of the duct, hardly daring to breathe. He didn't know where you were — not yet. But he wanted you. You could feel it in the way he paced.

A predator denied a kill.

You waited until they moved. Then, crawling as fast and quietly as you could, you crept further down the line — searching every cell, every room, hoping against hope you'd find Soap.
But nothing.
Empty. Clean.
Lifeless.

Where the hell did they move him?

Panic started to claw at your throat, rising with every heartbeat. You had no weapons, no allies, no idea where you were or how deep inside this facility you'd been dragged. The air vents seemed to close in tighter with every foot. Your shoulders were pressed against the metal walls, and it felt like the air was running out. The deeper you went, the louder your pulse became — a war drum of helplessness and urgency.

Finally, you couldn't take it anymore. You found a grate, twisted it off, and dropped down into a quiet hallway. Your knees hit the concrete hard. Pain flared — but you had no time to feel it.

Smoke.

It was faint at first, then stronger. Your lungs twitched. Something was burning.

Before you could process it, a boom ripped through the building — the ground trembled beneath your boots. Alarms howled to life, red lights strobing along the ceiling. Screams and shouts followed, panic erupting like a storm behind steel walls.

You didn't know who caused the explosion. You didn't care.

You bolted forward, weaving between corridors, hugging shadows, moving like your life depended on it — because it did. The chaos was your cover. You just needed an exit. A door. A window. Anything.

And then — you saw it.

A heavy steel door marked Emergency Exit. You sprinted, hand reaching for the handle—

Pain exploded through your stomach.

Your body folded mid-air as you were launched backward — crashing into the wall like a ragdoll. Your ribs screamed. You gasped for air, but nothing came. The world tilted and spun.

And then he was there.

The masked man. Towering above you, his shadow swallowing yours whole.

"And where the fuck," he said, voice a brutal rasp behind his helmet, "do you think you're going?"

You couldn't answer. Your mouth worked uselessly, your body locked in shock. He didn't wait. He gripped your collar and hauled you to your feet like you weighed nothing.

"Was this your doing?" he hissed, his goggles glowing faintly in the red light. You didn't know what he was talking about — the explosion? Soap? Something else?

Your silence was a nail in your own coffin.

He didn't shout. He didn't gloat. He just opened a door behind him and threw you through it like trash.

You hit the floor hard — again — and rolled across concrete until you slammed into something solid. A furnace? No — a melted table? You couldn't tell. The air was thick. Too thick.

And then you realized.

He had locked you inside a burning room.

Flames licked the far wall. Smoke curled in from the vents above. Ash drifted down like black snow.

"I heard once," his voice came through the door like a death sentence, "that being burned alive is the worst pain to ever exist."
A pause.
"You should test that theory."

Then — silence.
And the sound of the door locking.

You rushed to it, pounded on it, kicked it, screamed until your throat tore. Nothing. You tried to break the hinges. You searched for anything — a weapon, a pipe, a fire extinguisher.
Nothing.

The smoke thickened, clawing down your throat. It seared your lungs. You fell to your knees, coughing hard. Eyes burning. Skin beginning to sting. The heat rose — unbearable.

You tried to stay low. Pressed your face to the floor.
But it wasn't working.
You couldn't breathe.

Your vision started to blur.

You thought of home. The scent of wet earth. The wind in your hair. The laughter of a voice you couldn't place. You thought of Soap — his crooked grin, the warmth of his words, the way he looked at you like you were real.

"I don't want to die yet."

That was your last thought before everything went dark.