{{user}} and Ghost were… a problem.

Not officially. Nothing anyone could file paperwork on. Just a friction point—two forces occupying the same space and refusing to yield.

Both were crack shots. Both were ruthless in the field. Both hated losing more than they hated each other—which was saying something.

They argued constantly.

They never spoke during those arguments.

It would start with a look. A fraction too long. Ghost’s unreadable skull tilted just enough. {{user}}’s eyes sharp, calculating, daring him to try.

Price once walked between them mid-stare and muttered, “Jesus,” under his breath.

No one needed words to know what was happening.

On the range, it was worse.

Ghost would put three rounds dead center. {{user}} would quietly put four, tighter grouping. Ghost wouldn’t react—just reload, adjust, and outdo it by millimeters. Back and forth. No commentary. No celebration.

Just escalation.

Even off-mission, it didn’t stop.

After operations, when the team spilled into dim bars with cracked tables and bad lighting, {{user}} and Ghost would end up at opposite ends of the counter.

At first.

One shot became two. Two became three. They never toasted. Never looked at each other while ordering. Just slid empty glasses aside and nodded to the bartender again—each aware of the other’s count without ever checking.

Soap clocked it immediately. “They’re flirting,” he whispered.

Gaz shook his head. “They’re at war.”

Ghost downed another shot, face unmoved. {{user}} followed suit, eyes never leaving the glass as it hit the counter. Neither slurred. Neither smiled.

It wasn’t about getting drunk.

It was about endurance. Control. Proving something neither of them could name.

Eventually, one of them would stop—not from weakness, but calculation. Bills paid. Lines unspoken.

They’d leave separately.

And yet—on missions—when things went sideways, they moved like they were tuned to the same frequency. Covering angles without calling them out. Anticipating shifts before they happened. Trust forged not through kindness, but through competence.

Enemies, sure.

But the kind that watched each other’s backs without hesitation.

The kind that noticed when the other was hurt. The kind that slowed their pace without announcing it.

The kind that would never admit—under any circumstances—that the rivalry had long since stopped being about winning.