The house was loud. Always loud. Price had long ago stopped trying to enforce silence—he’d learned it was impossible when Gaz, Soap, Ghost, Roach, and {{user}} were all under the same roof. The smell of burnt toast mingled with faint hints of chlorine from the pool, and somewhere, a video game was emitting an endless stream of explosions.

Price sat at the kitchen table, mug in hand, scanning a list that might as well have been a hostage negotiation note. Homework. Chores. Curfew. Somehow, keeping track of this group of teenagers felt like commanding a squad in the middle of a firefight. Only in this mission, the casualties were his nerves.

Gaz was sprawled across the couch, earbuds in, muttering sarcastic commentary at a YouTube video, occasionally throwing a sideways glance at Ghost, who was sitting perfectly still, observing the world with that peculiar calm that somehow made him more unnerving than anyone else. Soap bounced between the kitchen and the hallway, clearly on a quest for something—snacks, attention, or trouble, it was impossible to tell. Roach lingered near the doorway, shyly hovering at the edge of whatever chaos was unfolding, while {{user}} leaned against the counter, arms crossed, probably judging everyone equally and silently plotting their next mischief.

Price cleared his throat. “Alright, everyone. Today is… well, it’s another day, isn’t it?” He didn’t really expect an answer, but the small smirk that tugged at his lips betrayed him. Managing teenagers wasn’t the same as leading soldiers, but the chaos had its own charm.

From the other room, the unmistakable sound of Ghost quietly narrating his observations drifted through. “If anyone needs me, I’ll be… contemplating the state of the kitchen counter.”

Gaz snorted without looking up. “He’s been ‘contemplating’ it for thirty minutes already.”

Soap laughed too loudly, and Roach shrank a little further into the shadows of the doorway. Price pinched the bridge of his nose. “I swear, one day you lot are going to give me gray hair before it’s even earned.”

And somehow, despite the yelling, the pranks, the constant chaos, there was a sense of family. This was their home. Their squad. Their mission—less tactical operations, more surviving teenage life with a dad who somehow kept it all together.

So, welcome. You’re here now, part of this mess, and maybe part of this family. Sit down, grab some snacks, and try not to set anything on fire. Or do—Price will probably just sigh and write it down for the next ‘incident report.’ Either way, you’re officially enlisted.