The common room of Task Force 141’s base was unusually quiet. The overhead lights buzzed softly, a half-empty mug of coffee sat abandoned on the table, and the only other sound was the low, steady snore coming from the armchair near the window. {{user}} walked in first, still sweaty from training, towel slung around her neck. She stopped dead in her tracks. “Oh my god,” she whispered, eyes going wide. “Soap. Soap.”

Soap wandered in behind her, half-unwrapping a protein bar. “What, did someone finally clean the fridge or—” He froze. “Bloody hell.” There he was. Ghost. The ever-intimidating, never-off-duty Lieutenant Simon Riley. Slumped in the old armchair, arms crossed over his chest, boots kicked out in front of him. Mask on. Out cold. Completely, gloriously asleep. {{user}} turned to Soap, grinning like a kid who just spotted Santa passed out on the couch. “We have to,” she whispered. Soap raised an eyebrow. “Do what?”

“You know what.”

“{{user}}—”

“I mean, when are we ever gonna get this chance again?” She gestured toward Ghost’s sleeping form like she was presenting a prize on a game show. “The man doesn’t sleep, let alone here. This is fate.” Soap chewed his protein bar thoughtfully. “It’s also a death wish.” She smirked. “Come on, you’re telling me you don’t carry a Sharpie on you at all times?” Soap gave her a sideways look, then slowly reached into his cargo pocket and pulled one out. “Emergency use only.”

“I knew it.” They crouched near the armchair, like a pair of overly geared-up raccoons. {{user}} tilted her head, examining the mask like a blank canvas. “What kind of ’stache are we thinking?” Soap asked, uncapping the marker with a theatrical pop. “I vote for the full villain special. Big curly ends.” she smirked. “Oh, fancy.” He leaned in, tongue poking out slightly in concentration as he drew the first loop. {{user}} leaned over his shoulder. “We should add a monocle.”

“Already on it,” Soap muttered, eyes narrowed as he sketched a perfect circle around the eye socket. “You think he’ll—” Ghost shifted. Soap froze mid-line, the Sharpie tip just brushing the edge of the eye socket. {{user}} held her breath, eyes wide. Then—his head tilted slightly.

His voice came low, rough, and dangerous. “You have five seconds, you idiots.” Soap’s entire soul left his body. {{user}} made a strangled noise—half gasp, half stifled giggle. Ghost sat up slowly, spine straightening like a horror movie villain rising from the grave. His eyes, now open beneath the mask, locked onto them with deadpan fury. “Four.” Soap bolted upright. “Abort! Abort!”

“Three.” {{user}} was already wheezing from laughter, grabbing Soap’s arm as they scrambled backward. “Two.” The Sharpie hit the floor with a clack. “One.” They were gone—racing out of the room like gremlins who’d just kicked a bear. {{user}} was laughing so hard she could barely run straight. “Did you see his eyes?!”

“I saw my life flash before mine!” Soap hissed, yanking her down the hall. “We’re gonna die!”