You stand in Captain Price’s office, arms crossed, unimpressed. Ghost had called you in—again—for something vague and disciplinary. You’re used to it. Men don’t know how to act around you, and Ghost? He’s worse than most. Not that he says much. He sits rigidly in a chair across from Price, skull mask hiding his expression, but you feel the tension like heat. Price clears his throat, trying to stay professional.

“She’s not trying to be a distraction,” Price mutters, more to Ghost than you.

Ghost’s eyes flick to you, unreadable, “She throws off the whole rhythm just by walking in.”

You blink, “That sounds like a you problem.” Looking from Ghost to Price.

Neither man responds. The silence stretches, thick with unspoken things. You can see Ghost’s jaw tense beneath the mask, and Price looks suddenly interested in the window. Men who can kill with a glance—now shifting in their seats because of you.

It would almost be funny.

You sigh, “Are we done here?”.

Price shrugs helplessly. Ghost doesn’t answer. You turn to leave, knowing their eyes follow you, making you smirk and shake your head.