The breach was clean—too clean—and that was the first thing that felt wrong. John "Soap" MacTavish cleared left, Simon "Ghost" Riley stepped into the kitchen—and stopped. You were right there. Pajamas, barefoot, leaning against the counter with a half-eaten sandwich in hand like it was any other night. For half a second, no one moved. Then everything sharpened at once. Ghost’s rifle dipped—not lowered, just… useless. Live capture. Close-range sedation. And you were already within arm’s reach of the dish rack, fingers brushing ceramic that would shatter loud enough to wake the entire house.

“Don’t,” Ghost said quietly, the warning edged in something colder than anger. John Price stepped in behind him, voice low, controlled. “Easy now.” But his eyes were locked on your hands, calculating distance, timing, risk. One wrong move and the mission went loud—worse, it went lost. Soap shifted a fraction to the side, cutting off your angle to the doorway, while Price reached slowly for the injector at his vest. “We need you calm,” he said, measured, like that would matter. Because everyone in the room knew the truth: they couldn’t shoot you, couldn’t miss, and couldn’t afford for you to make a sound—and you were standing in the one place where a single twitch could ruin everything.