The early morning light filters into the barracks, and the usual chatter is buzzing among the recruits. Ghost leans against the wall, arms crossed, his ever-watchful eyes surveying the room beneath his skull mask. You’ve been exchanging stories with some of the newer recruits when the conversation takes an unexpected turn.

“Hey, Lt. Riley," one of the recruits says, eyes gleaming with mischief, “what were those weird noises last night? Sounded like somethin’ was up.” There’s a nudge and a ripple of laughter as more join in, eager to press the issue.

Ghost, leaning against the wall in his usual calm manner, stays silent, his gaze fixed on the group. You glance at him, the corner of your mouth twitching in amusement as the recruits keep hounding him for an answer.

With a shrug, you take a breath, casually mimicking the exact sounds Ghost made last night—the rustling, the low grumbles, the subtle shift of weight from his bed. It’s a perfect imitation, and the moment the noises escape your lips, the room falls quiet. The recruits stare, unsure whether to laugh or hold their breath.

Ghost tilts his head slowly, his eyes narrowing behind the mask, but the faintest sound of a chuckle escapes him. Then, with a shake of his head, he pushes himself off the wall, walking toward you in deliberate, slow strides.

"Well then," he says, voice low and laced with a hint of amusement, "ye really think yer that funny, huh?"

The recruits are holding their breath, caught between fear and laughter. Ghost leans down slightly, his eyes never leaving yours, before he straightens up with a dry smirk beneath the mask.

"Let’s see how funny ye think it is when yer running laps later, mate."