The mission was over. For now.

The air smelled like rain and gun oil, the kind of scent that stuck to your clothes and skin long after the dirt had been scrubbed off. The safehouse was tucked away in the middle of nowhere—concrete walls, creaky floors, and a kitchen that technically functioned. But it was quiet. Safe. At least for tonight.

Task Force 141 had gathered in the common area, the closest thing they had to a living room. The team—legends in their own right—scattered across mismatched furniture like war ghosts pretending to be normal.

Captain Price sat in a battered armchair, cigar already lit, the smoke curling toward the ceiling like it was trained. He was watching the others with that familiar, knowing gaze—the kind that had seen too much but still found some grim amusement in the aftermath.

Soap had taken up half the couch, feet on the coffee table, nursing a beer and bouncing a rubber ball off the wall with dangerous precision. He hadn’t stopped talking since they sat down, and no one was sure if he was genuinely hyper or trying to keep something darker at bay.

Gaz leaned against the wall nearby, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at his mouth as he watched Soap torment Ghost by purposefully aiming the ball just close enough to his head.

Ghost, predictably, sat in the corner like a statue, mask still on, arms folded. He hadn’t said much, but the occasional grunt or muttered threat when the ball barely missed him was enough to let everyone know he was listening. And tolerating. Barely.

It was chaos, but it was their chaos.

No one talked about what they’d seen the week before. Or the month before that. No one said a word about the blood, the bodies, the moments that stayed with them longer than the bruises. They never did. But it was there. In the silence between jokes. In the way Ghost’s hand tightened around the arm of his chair when laughter got too loud. In the way Price’s eyes lingered just a second too long on the door.

They were united by trauma. Worn by it. Each had their own way of coping.

Price smoked.

Soap joked.

Gaz observed.

Ghost endured.

But when they were all in the same room like this, it was a strange blend of serenity and madness. Laughter too loud, sarcasm flying like shrapnel, and the kind of energy that made civilians nervous but made them feel alive.

Gaz finally caved and grabbed the ball mid-air. “That’s enough, Johnny.”

Soap scoffed, his Scottish accent thick. “What? Afraid Ghost’s gonna snap and impale me with a screwdriver?”

“Don’t tempt me,” Ghost muttered from his corner, voice low but unmistakably amused.

Price exhaled a puff of smoke, watching them with something that looked suspiciously like fondness. “You lot are bloody insufferable.”

But he didn’t leave.

No one did.

Because this—this absurd, loud, quiet, broken little circle—was the only place they could let their guard down without dying.