Just Read Hesh File (23544th Time) And You Know If Yall Read It And Listened To The Audio File You Will

Erm...I shouldn't have even made this blog from the first place I have unfinished lessons, next final exams and unfinished requests (Jokes on yall half of em i didnt even think about to write)

Cod Ghost server

Hey! It seems like a lot of people still don’t know about our Call of Duty: Ghosts Discord server and keep asking around—even though it’s already pinned in my post! and i have already written in my bio about it.

So, just to clarify—we have a SFW Discord server that’s a safe space for minors. We share art, memes, chat, and just have fun together!

When you join, you’ll need to stay in the verification room for a bit. We’ll just ask about your Tumblr account to make sure you’re not someone we’ve banned before.

So, what are you waiting for? Here is the invite!

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊Hesh walker ODIN strike moodboard₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶

꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶

Nurse for the Day

Logan walker X fem!reader! [requested!]

summary: Taking care of your sick bf logan, and staying by his side.

notes: SFW, sorry if this short I tried my best

Here he was, trapped in the prison of his own sheets, each breath a delicate negotiation through clogged passages. The flu had settled into his bones like an unwanted houseguest, making itself far too comfortable. His nose, betrayed him with every labored inhale, forcing him to breathe through his mouth in shallow, unsatisfying gasps.

The ceiling had become his unwilling companion, its blank canvas collecting the shadows of his boredom. Four hours? Five? Time had lost all meaning in this fevered state. His throat felt like he'd swallowed broken glass, each attempt to swallow sending sharp reminders of his condition. Even the simple act of sipping water had become an exercise in courage.

The worst part wasn't the physical discomfort—though God knew that was bad enough—but the maddening stillness. The world continued its chaotic dance outside his window while he lay here, a reluctant monk in a monastery of misery.

You slipped into the room, wet cloth in hand, a silent angel in the afternoon light. His face lit up at the sight of you, even through the haze of his fever—though honestly, it was hard to tell if that was love or delirium at this point.

"Babe, I think I'm dying," he said, his voice rough as sandpaper. His eyes were barely open, heavy-lidded and glassy, but still tracking your movement like you were his last hope for salvation.

You just shrugged, going about your careful ministrations. When you reached for his wrist to check his pulse, he seized the moment—and your hand—with all the dramatic flair of a man on his deathbed.

"Yeah, babe, hold my hand before I go"

"Logan, you're not going to die," you sighed, but there was no real exasperation in it. Just the fond weariness of someone who'd signed up for this particular brand of drama when they fell in love.

His fingers intertwined with yours, clammy but determined. A weak smile played across his fever-flushed face. "Of course you know I'm not going to die," he murmured, squeezing your hand. "You're an angel."

The words came out soft and sincere, stripped of his earlier theatrics. Even sick as a dog, he had these moments—these little glimpses of the heart beneath the humor that made you fall in love with him in the first place. You pressed the cool cloth to his forehead, hiding your smile as he leaned into your touch like it was the only medicine he needed.

"Don't let me kiss you here, or you'll get me fever," you warned him, a soft smile playing on your lips as you tended to him. He looked so vulnerable there, wrapped in blankets, his usually bright eyes clouded with fever. The warning came naturally—protecting him was second nature, but protecting yourself from him? That was new.

He watched you through half-closed eyes, and even in his miserable state, the love in his gaze was unmistakable. If anyone had to be sick, he was glad it was him. The thought of you going through this—of you being the one burning up with fever—made his already aching chest tighten further. No, better him than you, gorgeous. Always better him than you.

"You should be out having some fun," he murmured, eyes finally drifting shut as you adjusted the cool cloth on his forehead. His voice was rough, scratchy, but the concern in it was clear as day. Here he was, feeling like death warmed over, and still worrying about you wasting your time.

"And let you suffer alone? No chance." The words came out firm, brooking no argument. You weren't going anywhere, and both of you knew it. Some people might call it stubborn, but this was love in its purest form—staying when it's inconvenient, when it's messy, when someone's used up three boxes of tissues and can't stop complaining about their throat.

His lips quirked up slightly at your response, even as he sank deeper into his pillow. Even sick, he was beautiful to you—fever-flushed cheeks and all. Maybe he looked like a mess, but he was your mess, and you wouldn't have it any other way.

The fever clung to him like a second skin, heat radiating from his body in waves. You pressed the cool, damp cloth against his forehead, feeling the way his skin burned beneath it. His hair was damp with sweat, strands sticking messily to his forehead. Absentmindedly, your fingers combed through them, a quiet attempt at comfort.

His breathing was uneven, chest rising and falling with effort, each inhale shaky, each exhale laced with exhaustion. The dim light in the room cast soft shadows over him, highlighting the hollowness in his cheeks, the way fever had stolen the usual sharpness from his expression.

"Better?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking too loudly would shatter him completely.

His lips curled into a weak smile, though his eyes remained shut. For a moment, it seemed as though he might actually drift into the sleep his body so desperately needed. But then, with a raspy chuckle, he muttered, "Nah. Kill me, please."

You couldn't help but laugh softly, shaking your head. Even sick, he couldn’t resist the dramatics. You brushed a few more damp strands away from his face, watching as his expression relaxed slightly under your touch.

----------------------

After a week of battling fever and exhaustion, Logan finally felt like himself again. The weight of sickness had lifted, leaving behind a sense of newfound freedom—no more aching muscles, no more suffocating warmth, no more restless, fevered dreams. He stretched his limbs as if testing them, relishing the absence of pain.

Wandering into the room, he found you at your desk, quietly organizing scattered papers and trinkets. The soft sound of shuffling filled the space, your focus entirely on the task at hand. A small smile tugged at his lips as he watched you, something warm and unspoken settling in his chest.

Without a word, he stepped forward, slipping his arms around your waist and pulling you against him. His chin came to rest on your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin as he peered over to see what you were doing. You stilled for a moment but didn’t push him away, allowing his presence to settle against you like something familiar, something missed.

"You’re the best, you know that?" he murmured, voice still slightly rough from the remnants of his illness.

You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head. "I kept you alive, at least."

He chuckled, his grip tightening just slightly. "Exactly, angel." Logan turned his head slightly, pressing a soft, lingering kiss against the curve of your shoulder.

“And by the way,” you added, tilting your head slightly as his arms remained snug around your waist, “you’re only better because of the medication—not because of me.”

Logan hummed in fake consideration, lips grazing your cheek in lazy, repeated pecks. “Mmm, debatable,” he murmured.

You rolled your eyes, though a smirk played at your lips. “Oh, please. You barely took them. I had to bribe, threaten, and practically beg you.”

He groaned, resting his forehead against your shoulder. “They taste like absolute shit.”

You scoffed, pulling back just enough to glance at him. “Either you take them, or I put them into you myself.” Your voice carried a teasing warning, but the glint in your eyes said you meant business.

Logan lifted his head, eyes flickering with mischief. “Kinda into that,” he muttered with a smirk.

Before you could react, he grabbed your arms and spun you effortlessly, flipping you around until you were pressed against him, face to face. Your breath hitched as he grinned, mischief painted all over his expression.

Without another word, Logan leaned in, his lips capturing yours in a kiss, you leaned into him, his grip on your arms tightened, pulling you closer. The kiss deepened, warm and consuming, and you forgot all about the teasing, the frustrations over the medicine, the playful banter that had filled the room moments before. It was just the two of you—lost in the softness of the moment, the world outside slipping away.

His lips moved against yours with a quiet urgency, as though making up for lost time, a week of illness and silence melting into something sweeter. You responded in kind, your hand reaching up to tangle in his hair, the touch so familiar, yet still full of that spark that made your heart race.

When the kiss finally broke, you both lingered close, breaths mingling, foreheads resting together as the room fell into a peaceful silence.

“Guess the meds worked after all,” you whispered with a smile, your voice still a little breathless.

Logan chuckled, his nose brushing against yours in that way he always did when he was being affectionate, but still trying to keep things light. “Yeah, well, I'd be a gooner if it weren't you"

You laughed softly, and he pulled you back into a tighter hold, All that matter is that your sweet boy is alright and breathing.

AHHH i cannot get Logan out of my brain!! Would love to see your take on Logan and f!readers wedding day! Maybe what the first few years of “normal life” would be? a child maybe? do they own a farm with. bunch of animals? i’m curious on what you’d think!

Hell yeah ma'am.

꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶

꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶

How would an after-marriage life be with logan

X fem!reader!

Notes: nothing just my little boy logan

💐 Wedding Day:

The sun sets low over a quiet, secluded outdoor venue, the sky painted in soft oranges and pinks. It’s a small ceremony—intimate, private—just family and close friends.

No grand spectacle, just the kind of love that doesn’t need an audience to be real.

Logan isn’t a man who gets nervous. He’s been through firefights, ambushes, war zones. But standing in front of a mirror, adjusting his tie? This might be the most terrifying thing he’s ever done.

Merrick claps him on the back. “Relax, Walker. She’s not running anywhere.”

“Yeah,” kick smirks, “but you might if you don’t stop fidgeting.”

Logan rolls his eyes but tightens his grip on the ring box anyway.

The only moment of pure calm comes when Elias walks in. He doesn’t say much—he doesn’t have to. Just a firm hand on Logan’s shoulder and a simple:

“Your mother would’ve loved this.” 😔😔😔 anyways

The venue is small, intimate, peaceful. A clearing surrounded by trees, where the golden hour sun filters through the branches. There’s no over-the-top décor, no extravagant flourishes—just a love that’s strong enough on its own.

He stands tall, hands clasped in front of him, but you can see the tension in his jaw.

Then he sees you. And for a moment, everything else blurs.

His grip loosens.

His heartbeat slows.

Everything makes sense.

how would he not when you're wearing this dress that is giving the final bride who would ever wear something like that🥺🥺 im sorry

He’s already halfway smiling, eyes locked on you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded.

exchanging vows, Logan’s never been good with words, but when it’s time for vows, he doesn’t stumble. He doesn’t overthink. He just speaks.

“I never thought I’d get a life outside of war. I didn’t think I deserved one.”

“But then there was you.”

“You gave me a reason to want more. To believe that after everything, I could still have something good. Someone good.”

“You were my peace when I didn’t know what that felt like. And now, you’re my forever.”

His voice is steady, but his hands tremble when he slides the ring onto your finger. Not out of fear—but because this is real.

When you say your vows, Logan holds onto every word. He doesn’t look away, doesn’t shift in place. Just soaks in every syllable, like he’s memorizing the way forever sounds.

When it’s time to kiss the bride, he doesn’t hesitate. It’s deep, slow, the kind of kiss that says everything words can’t.

And when the reception rolls around? It’s warm, loud, full of life.

Logan isn’t much of a dancer, but he pulls you onto the floor anyway, hands firm around your waist. He’s stiff at first, but with every laugh you give him, every whispered “You’re doing great,” he relaxes.

Eventually, he relaxes, hands settling on your waist, forehead resting against yours.“This isn’t so bad,” he murmurs, the corner of his mouth twitching up.

“Told you.”

By the end of the song, he’s completely lost in you.

and elias dance like that cause he is so biased for logan, and then he dies before hesh's wedding cause he is just like that.

ok bye sorry

And just like that, Logan Walker—a man who never thought he’d have a future—steps into the first day of forever.

what?yall thought i would write a wedding night scene? stupid little muffins thinking i would turn my blog from SFW to NSFW

Getting into the real life:

At first, normal feels… strange. Logan spent so much of his life fighting that waking up without a mission feels unnatural.

The first few months are filled with small adjustments, moments where he has to remind himself that this—this quiet, peaceful life—is real.

Logan wakes up before you almost every day. It’s a habit he can’t shake.

But instead of rushing into action, he just… stays there. Lying beside you, listening to your steady breathing, memorizing the way your fingers curl slightly in your sleep.

Eventually, you stir, and he greets you with a low, lazy, “Morning.”

Some mornings, he makes coffee. Others, he just pulls you closer, burying his face in the crook of your neck, as if making up for all the mornings he never got to have.

Logan never really learned how to cook. MREs and quick, no-effort meals were his go-to. But now? He wants to try.

One morning, you wake up to the smell of burnt toast and slightly questionable scrambled eggs.

Logan, standing there, arms crossed, looking down at the mess.“…It’s not that bad.”

“Babe, it’s black.”

He just shrugs, still stubborn. “It’s… crispy.”

Despite the failure, he keeps trying. And eventually, he starts getting good at it—to the point where Sunday mornings mean Logan making pancakes from scratch and grumbling when you try to help.

Logan still takes time to adjust. At first, he doesn’t leave much of a mark on the place—no decorations, no personal touches.

Until one day, you catch him putting up a picture of the two of you.You pause, smiling. “Making it feel like home?”

He glances at you, then back at the photo, and nods. “Yeah… I think so.” he is not awkward but that is his personality always a simple man talking.

at night, when the lights are low and the world is quiet, he opens up.

Some nights, you lie in bed tracing old scars, pressing soft kisses to them.He doesn’t flinch anymore. He just exhales, melting into your touch.

Other nights, you both just exist together. No words, no pressure—just the feeling of his steady heartbeat under your cheek.

One afternoon, while lying on the couch, you casually say, “We should get a dog.”

Logan raises a brow. “You want a dog?”

“You had Riley. You were basically a dog dad already.”

The next day, he surprises you by taking you to a shelter. And suddenly? You have a rescue dog curled up in your home, fast asleep against Logan’s leg.

Logan whispering “I love you” when he thinks you’re asleep.

im not gonna talk abt pregnancy and stuff cuz i am already planning for another post for all cod characters so!

Ok boomer

merrick calling rorke secretly

merrick: rorke this is not fucking funny bring the kid back

rorke: no.

merrick: FUCK YOU MEAN NO?YOU THINK YOU CAN TAKE WHATEVER YOU WANT?

merrick: AND WHY THE FUCK IS KICK ON THE SAME LINE WITH US??

I will write for the most forgettable character in cod ghosts guess who?

HII can you write riley X reader!💋😏😍🙏🏻

WHAT THE HELL??, sure.

[that request was like weeks ago HELPPPP I CANT BELIEVE I WROTE THIS]

No time to explain...

[Years Ago – The Act of Kindness]

It was a cold, lonely evening when you found him.

A small, weak, starving German Shepherd shivering under a streetlight, looking like a tragic protagonist in a war movie. His ribs poked out. His eyes, glassy and desperate. You froze. The wind howled around you. The world slowed.

You couldn’t just walk away. You wouldn’t.

With trembling hands, you reached into your bag and pulled out your last sandwich—your favorite sandwich. You hesitated. Did you really have to give him the whole thing?

But one look at that little face, and you knew.

"Take it, buddy," you whispered, voice breaking like this was the emotional climax of a Hollywood film. "Live."

The pup devoured it in seconds, his little tail wagging weakly. Then he was gone.

You never saw him again.

Until tonight.

The battlefield burned around you. Gunfire echoed. Everything was chaos. You were cornered, breathing hard, blood dripping down your temple. This was it. The end.

Then—

SCREEEEECH.

A black SUV came barreling down the dirt road, kicking up dust, headlights blinding. The door swung open before the car even stopped.

You shielded your eyes from the dust, coughing. Who the hell was driving like this?

Then, you heard the voice.

"NO TIME TO EXPLAIN. GET IN THE CAR."

Your blood ran cold. That voice. It was deep. Commanding. Heroic.

You turned slowly.

And there, sitting in the driver’s seat… was a German Shepherd.

A combat vest. Tactical headset. Dog goggles reflecting the flames of battle. Paws gripping the wheel.

It was Riley.

Your knees buckled.

"NO. WAY."

Riley snarled.

"GET IN, SOLDIER."

Your body moved before your brain could process. You dove into the passenger seat, slamming the door shut as Riley floored it, tires screeching.

You stared at him. Mouth open. Shaking.

"...Riley. YOU’RE A DOG. HOW ARE YOU DRIVING?"

His dog goggles glinted in the streetlights as he took a sharp turn, dodging an explosion WITHOUT EVEN BLINKING.

"I SAID NO TIME TO EXPLAIN."

You gripped the dashboard, mind unraveling.

"...CAN YOU TALK? HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN ABLE TO TALK?"

Riley sighed, ears twitching. "Listen, I didn’t WANT you to find out like this. But fate has a way of catching up."

"FATE?! YOU’RE A DOG."

"AND YOU'RE SCREAMING IN MY CAR."

"...IT’S NOT EVEN YOUR CAR, YOU’RE A DOG."

"IT IS NOW."

You blinked in disbelief as Riley casually switched lanes with his PAW.

"I was trained for this," he muttered. "Ever since you fed me that sandwich, I knew... I owed you."

Your soul left your body.

"Riley. Please. You're literally a dog."

He just nodded, eyes locked on the road.

"I know."

You sat in the passenger seat, completely paralyzed. Every bone in your body refused to move as your brain fought to accept the impossible truth.

Riley, a literal dog, was driving an SUV at 110 mph like he had a mortgage and child support to pay.

Your mouth hung open. Your breath came out in shallow, broken gasps. You could still hear the echoes of gunfire in the distance, but nothing—NOTHING—could compare to the sheer psychological damage happening in your mind right now.

Riley, paws gripping the wheel, squinted at the road like a seasoned war veteran. The silence in the car was deafening.

Then, in the most casual, human-like voice you’ve ever heard…

"So, what’s up?"

You blinked. Your entire nervous system crashed like a Windows XP error.

“…Excuse me?”

Riley sighed, tilting his head slightly. "I asked what's up. You seem tense."

You stared at him. Stared at the wheel. Stared at his fluffy paws effortlessly steering. Then back at him.

Your hands clenched into fists. You inhaled sharply.

"UH. YOU KNOW. I WAS JUST ABOUT TO DIE, AND THEN YOU SHOWED UP DRIVING A WHOLE ASS CAR AND TALKING, SO YEAH, I'D SAY I'M A BIT ‘TENSE’ RIGHT NOW."

Riley side-eyed you through his dog goggles and clicked his tongue.

"Yeah, I gathered that, fucking idiot. Why don’t you tell me something I don’t know?"

You sat there. Dumbfounded.

Your brain searched for a response. There was none. Nothing. Just a void of pure confusion.

And then, as if this entire situation wasn’t unhinged enough, Riley took a deep breath, exhaled dramatically, and went:

"Alright, let's talk about the team."

He flexed his paws on the steering wheel like he was about to deliver the monologue of the century.

"Hesh," he started, shaking his head. "Poor bastard. Tries so hard. Always acting like he's got it together, like he's the leader, but you and I both know that kid is two bad days away from a full emotional breakdown."

You blinked. "...Damn."

"Logan," Riley continued, taking a casual turn WITH HIS PAW. "Bro doesn’t speak. Not that he can’t—he just won’t. Dead silent. Stone cold. But if you’ve ever seen him when he thinks no one's watching? Yeah. That man has absolutely cried in his room at 3 AM while listening to Linkin Park. I know it. I feel it in my soul."

You stared at him, unable to process how a DOG was delivering the most accurate character analysis you've ever heard.

Riley continued, eyes still on the road, like this was a podcast.

"Merrick." A deep sigh. "Man’s been through too much. You look into his eyes, and it’s just PTSD and caffeine. He won’t say it, but I know he wakes up in a cold sweat at least twice a week. He's got ‘haunted past’ written all over him. The dude deserves a nap."

Your mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again.

"Keegan." Riley let out a single, dry chuckle. "That guy? If brooding and trauma had a baby, it would be him. Man tries so hard to be intimidating, but let’s be real—he’s like a raccoon in a human body. He’ll disappear for 14 hours and come back like nothing happened. Probably sleeps in a vent somewhere. I respect it."

You couldn't BREATHE.

Riley wasn’t even looking at you anymore—he was just talking, like this was a TED Talk.

"Kick." Riley let out a low whistle. "Dude’s the most normal out of all of us, which is concerning. Like, why are you well-adjusted? What’s your secret? Are you hiding something? I keep an eye on him, just in case."

At this point, you were fully gripping your seatbelt like your life depended on it.

Then Riley’s voice dropped into something heavy. Emotional.

"...Elias."

A long pause.

A deep breath.

"...Good man. A leader. A father. A loss we’ll never recover from."

You actually felt a lump in your throat. What the hell was this? A eulogy?

You were about to say something, but then—

"Rorke, though? Absolute waste of human existence."

Your head snapped towards Riley so fast, you almost broke your neck.

"Oh—oh my god."

Riley continued, voice full of venom. "Rorke out here looking like a rejected Fast & Furious villain, but ain't fast or furious—just bald."

You choked.

"Looks like an evil stepdad who forces you to call him by his first name."

Tears. Actual tears formed in your eyes.

"I—Riley, please—"

"Man is bald as hell but wears a durag like it's gonna bring his hairline back."

You were GASPING FOR AIR.

Riley simply exhaled through his nose like he had just dropped wisdom upon the world.

You sat there, completely emotionally destroyed, as the SUV finally rolled up to your house.

Riley parked perfectly (because of course he did), put the car in park, and turned to you.

For the first time, he took off his goggles, locking eyes with you. His stare was intense. Soul-piercing.

"Remember this day."

Then, as if none of this ever happened, Riley opened the door with his paw, stepped out, and disappeared into the night.

Leaving you to question everything you had ever known.

"I JUST...."

"We are ghosts bitch."

[FADE TO BLACK.]

🎶 Dramatic music swells. 🎶

[CREDITS ROLL.]

DIRECTED BY: Riley. WRITTEN BY: Riley. PRODUCED BY: Riley. STARRING: Riley.

me after reading this

When the Smoke Clears

Hesh's thoughts aftermath after Logan gets taken

Horror.

I didn't know how to feel after Elias was killed in front of me with a bullet to his brains. I had watched the way the blood pooled around him, the same blood that was pumping through my veins, through Logan's veins.

Actually...

How was I supposed to react when he told Logan that he was proud of him as his last words? Why not me? Why not us? I had always tried to be a better person by taking care of Logan, I loved him dearly as a brother. I was there for him when dad wasn't.

So why was he given all the credit? What did I miss through the years to not even get a single word of appreciation?

How come the mask was given to him instead? Was I not worthy to inherit it?

Did I not resemble dad enough to even be considered to be given it?

Was I lacking something? Did I try too hard?

I didn't know.

All I knew was that I wanted Logan back. Even if I did envy him a little bit after Elias's death. Sure, I was angry at Rorke for killing him - but I was even angrier that dad never told me that he was proud of me, that he actually cared for me, to tell me that he was glad that I held my ground and gave support even when the world was crumbling around us, Odin.

That I had taken care of Logan when he wasn't there to do it himself. That I had taken the responsibility even if I didn't have to, there was no need to yet I did. My brother looked up more to me than Elias.

So why?

What did I get in return?

Nothing.

Just death.

Just the sight of dad dying and Logan getting taken away from me.

I failed.

I failed to protect both of them.

I failed to be a good soldier.

But most importantly, I failed to he a good big brother.

How could I have been so careless?

How could I have been so sure that Rorke was gone? Dead? How?

I should have known better that Rorke could come crawling back immediately for revenge. I knew how he was, we all knew, so why? Why couldn't I have been more cautious to prevent this?

Why couldn't I have been stronger to go after him?

Why did my body lock up?

Why?

All of these were questions I didn't know the answer to. No matter how much I tried to think, to figure, to solve, I couldn't come across a conclusion.

Besides one.

I wasn't worthy enough to be any of the things I was.

Logan was, he was ruthless, silent. There was a reason why Rorke took him instead of me. He reminded him of Elias - of himself. That same silent courage Logan showed, and I didn't.

I tried, I really did. But I failed.

Was all of my effort for nothing?

So far, it's being proven that way.

No matter how much me and the team are trying, we can't find Logan's location. His last known location was more than half a year ago, who knows where he could be now.

Who even knows if he's still alive or not.

What if he had already been turned into a Fed and was being trained to hunt the rest of the Ghosts down right now?

I don't want to think of it like this, but the dreaded possibility is starting to become a true fact as the days pass.

I don't want to lose Logan, my baby brother. I just can't.

I have already lost dad, and I can't lose Logan, too. Hell, even mom isn't with us anymore. She would have known what to tell me, what to do.

But she isn't here anymore either.

It's just me.

I would have to step up to bat, to be the lone player, and score the point.

To be the one who gets a headshot.

A bullseye.

I've prayed to God, even though my belief in him had been teetering on the edge of completely dissolving. But after everything that happened, I found myself clasping my hands together, on my knees, and mumbling the prayers mom had taught me. After all these years, I still remembered them by heart.

I've prayed for forgiveness, for Logan's health and well-being, that he's still alive, still fighting, still being stubborn to not turn into a Fed.

I don't know what else to do besides pray. I know it's a desprete action, but who else can I go to for help? There's no one here for me.

No one.

God, Logan, please be alive.

I miss you.

We all miss you.

Dont worry, we're all coming for you. We're searching, planning.

And when we do find you, God will, I will fucking kill that motherfucker Rorke and burn the Federation bastards down to the ground. For dad. For all of us Ghosts.

For you.