The metallic stench of blood coated the air — even with the interrogation room a building over. Or maybe it from was the crescent shaped puncture wounds in your palm as you clench your fists tight, trying to ease the shake.

A cup of tea enters your periphery, the large hand holding it unmistakably Ghost’s, considering Price was in the room next door and Gaz and Soap were talking quietly amongst themselves at the dingy kitchen table of this horrid shack you were all calling home for the foreseeable future.

“Drink,” his voice is demanding, but only holds a tenth of the ferocity you’d seen in the interrogation room earlier. “It’ll calm the nerves,” he added gently.