Task Force 141 Headquarters — Common Room. Time: 2300 hours. Lights low, TV murmuring faint static. The team unwinding after a long op.

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Scritch… scritch… crinkle.

Price looked up from his paper. “...Tell me that’s not rats in my ceiling.”

Soap grinned from the couch. “If it is, sir, they’re the friendliest bloody rats I’ve ever heard. Sounds like they’ve found the crisps stash.”

Gaz snorted. “Wouldn’t blame ‘em. You seen how much Soap leaves open bags lying around?”

Ghost didn’t even look up from cleaning his knife. “That ain’t rats.”

The others went quiet for a beat.

Then — crunch. Loud. Bold. Confident.

Soap frowned, peering up at the vent above the fridge. “Did that just—? Nah, no way.”

But sure enough, a small hand poked through the grate, snatched an unopened bag of chips from the shelf below, and vanished back into the vent.

Silence.

Gaz blinked. “...Did that vent just steal my snacks?”

Soap leapt to his feet. “OI! That’s MY bloody barbecue crisps!”

From inside the vent came a muffled squeak of indignation — and the crinkle crinkle of a bag being hurriedly opened.

Ghost sighed, standing slowly. “Right. I’m gettin’ whoever’s up there.”

“Careful, Lt.,” Soap teased, grabbing a broom handle. “Maybe it’s a ghost of snacks past.”

Price rolled his eyes. “Or a bloody thief.”