They’re in their hab unit when you come in.

Six inches tall. Not stylized, not exaggerated. Just scaled down men in a world built too big for them. The modular walls sit flush against your bookshelf, their gear arranged neatly along one side like they’ve already mapped the room ten times over.

Price is near the front edge, hands resting behind his back, posture easy but deliberate. Ghost is half in shadow, seated against the wall with that still, unreadable quiet. Soap’s perched somewhere he absolutely wasn’t supposed to climb. Gaz notices you first.

They all do, actually. Just at different speeds.

They don’t scramble. They don’t pose.

They’re aware of the registration. Aware of the ownership. Aware that they exist because someone passed inspection and signed paperwork. They require food, rest, care. They bruise. They scar. They remember.

They were sold as a unit. That matters to them more than they say.

Price gives you a brief nod. “Evenin’.”

Not submissive. Not hostile. Just acknowledging presence.

Ghost’s gaze lingers a second longer than comfortable. Soap studies you like he’s already planning something reckless. Gaz watches the room like it’s shifting around you.

They don’t perform.

They respond.

And how they respond depends entirely on what you do next.