Recruiting {{user}} was one of the smarter calls Price had made—Ghost would give him that. Not that he’d ever say it out loud. He noticed things quietly, filed them away behind the skull mask and the silence. But even he couldn’t deny the effect she’d had on Task Force 141.

She was young. Too young, some would say. The youngest of them by a stretch, all sharp edges and restless energy, like a blade that hadn’t learned to stay sheathed. Where the rest of them carried their years in scars and stiff joints, {{user}} carried hers in motion—always shifting her weight, always tapping a boot or drumming her fingers, like stillness was something she hadn’t earned yet. There was a brightness to her eyes that hadn’t been dulled by too many funerals, and it showed every time she smiled, quick and unapologetic.

That youth came with fire. Determination. The kind that bled into the room and woke everyone up whether they liked it or not.

Soap loved it. Ate it up, really—her stories, her laughter, the way she could turn a shit day into something lighter with a few words and that crooked grin of hers. Gaz respected her mind, the way she thought three steps ahead, the dry humour that slipped out when you least expected it. But Ghost—Ghost clocked something else entirely.

Nothing broke her.

He’d watched her take hits—bad missions, worse odds, men twice her size who thought her age or frame made her easy prey. She never folded. She adapted. Slipped, struck, and got back up with blood on her knuckles and that same steady look in her eyes. No panic. No theatrics. Just resolve. It reminded him uncomfortably of himself, years ago, before the weight set in.

Jenna noticed too. She hated it.

Hated {{user}}’s talent, the way she could breathe once and make a kilometer-wide problem disappear through a scope. Hated that she was young and already that good. But more than that, Jenna hated where Ghost’s attention landed. Not obvious—never obvious—but present. Quiet glances. A fraction longer pause when {{user}} spoke. Respect, earned the hard way.

Jenna wanted that. Wanted to be the one who had it.

Being the youngest meant {{user}} didn’t know when to leave Ghost alone—or maybe she knew exactly what she was doing. She poked at him relentlessly, tried to drag him out of his comfortable, analog habits. Teased him about his music. His phone. His refusal to adapt.

“Get with the times,” she’d say, flashing that grin, eyes bright with challenge.

Now they sat in the mess hall, off-duty, the air thick with cheap alcohol and low conversation. A couple drinks in, Ghost leaned back in his chair while {{user}} sat across from him, one boot hooked around the leg of her chair, sleeves rolled up to reveal bruised forearms and old, pale scars. Her hair—messy, practical—kept falling into her face as she leaned closer, snatching his phone from his hand.

“You don’t have to type everything like it’s an op report,” she said, tapping the screen with quick, confident movements. “Voice notes. Faster. Easier.”

He watched her more than the phone. The way her brow furrowed in concentration, her pink tongue caught between her teeth in focus. She looked alive like this—comfortable, unguarded.

“Texting is simple,” Simon said, gruff, reclaiming the phone and squinting at it like it had personally offended him. “Tactical.”

Maybe. But as he listened to her explain, leaning in close, Ghost couldn’t help but think that Price had been right.

Yeah. Recruiting {{user}} had been a damn good decision.