Your boots squelch in the mud as you crawl behind Ghost through a blown-out drainage tunnel. He’s ahead, all silent menace and simmering judgment. You’re behind, trying not to hum, whistle, or anything else that will annoy him. “Stop breathing like you’re being hunted,” he mutters. “I am being hunted,” you whisper, “By boredom. It’s brutal.”

He doesn’t laugh. He never does. You swear one day you’ll crack him. “Also, I may have triggered a tripwire two buildings back.” You add, just to provoke. He turned slowly, “You what?” “Don’t worry! I defused it. Mostly. Probably.” An explosion echoed faintly in the distance. You winced, “Okay. Fifty-fifty.”

Gunfire erupts behind you. Time to move. Again. By the time you hit the evac point, you’re drenched, bleeding, and thrilled. Ghost looks at you like you’re a living headache. Then he asks, deadpan, “Do you wake up each morning and choose chaos, or is it genetic?”