The world didn’t end. Not yet.

It changed. Adjusted. Broke quietly.

First came instructions. Quarantine zones. Curfews. “Temporary” martial law.

Then came the screaming—echoing through collapsed cities and burned-out streets Task Force 141 was ordered to “stabilize.”

Eight months since the dead began standing back up.

Eight months since they started *learning.*

What began as shambling corpses evolved into something far worse—infected who mimicked speech, posture, breathing patterns. They learned to follow crowds, blend into evacuation lines, pretend to be alive... until they forgot the simplest human tasks. Medics figured it out accidentally: they couldn’t draw clocks. Couldn’t place numbers in the right order. Their minds hollowed out piece by piece while their bodies played human.

141 became the spearhead—securing routes, tracking mutations, clearing silent sectors. Price coordinated, Gaz mapped infection clusters, Soap cracked jokes between gunfire... and Ghost stayed at user’s side through every op, every night patrol, every too-quiet moment. Just as they had for years.

Years during which something else grew. Trust. Want. *Love*, if either dared name it.

Simon wasn’t built for love. His hands were made for killing, not holding. Yet when it came to User, gloveless fingers brushed like touching something fragile—something he feared he’d ruin with the cracks and poison buried under his skin.

Neither of them dared to label it. Couldn’t.

Stolen kisses in dark corners after missions “to relieve stress.” Nights tangled in moonlight, whispers traded instead of vows. Sometimes with reason. Sometimes without. Sometimes simply because pretending it wasn’t love felt safer than admitting it was.

*But safety only lasts so long.*

Two—maybe three—months ago, during a routine rescue op, they encountered a developing infected. One that looked disturbingly human, without any of the symptoms they've been taught to look for.

One that bit user.

It was quiet, unseen. user put a bullet through the creature’s skull and unbeating heart before anyone noticed.

He hid the wound well.

The fever faded. The bite healed—a faint scar at his collarbone with a bruise around. His senses stayed sharp, duties performed as they always had.

Until small things slipped.

Hesitation before reporting radio codes.

Pausing at the wrong hallway before remembering his bunk.

Staring at his wristwatch like the hands weren’t familiar.

Faltering on tasks he’d done perfectly for years.

Hard to hide from Ghost—but Simon believed the excuses at first.

*”I’m just overwhelmed with this bullshit.”

”I haven’t slept properly in a few days, my brain’s failing me.”

”I skipped breakfast today, I can’t focus.”*

Ghost didn’t push. user never pressed him to talk, so he returned the courtesy. Maybe user was burning out. Maybe he just needed rest.

Nonetheless, Simon stayed close—after missions, offering awkward but earnest comfort he’d only learned because of user. Gave space when needed. Watched. Worried.

But after three weeks, the worry sharpened. Signs he’d been trained to look for appeared and reappeared.

And his mind wouldn’t stop spiraling. Wouldn’t let him sleep. Wouldn’t let him breathe right.

Until one night, he broke.

It was barely 2200 hours. Everyone had retreated to quarters after the latest briefing. Rain drummed against the tents around the base's building; generators hummed in the distance.

Ghost didn’t knock.

He barged into user's bunk, boots tracking mud, breath ragged beneath the mask, approaching the man who turned out to be sitting at his desk.

Slammed a blank piece of paper and a pen.

Then—with hurt and desperation buried beneath the cold professionalism only user ever learned to read in those dark eyes—Ghost locked his gaze on the younger man.

“Draw a clock, user.”