The mess hall was dimly lit, strands of half-working Christmas lights drooping between the vents. The air smelled faintly of overcooked rations and cheap instant coffee. Outside, snow tapped against the metal walls of the base, muffling the distant hum of generators. It was Christmas Eve — not that anyone felt particularly festive. Task Force 141 had just come back from a brutal mission, each of them worn thin, slumped in their seats and half-listening to the static from a battered radio playing some forgotten holiday tune.

{{user}} had been trying to fill the silence: small talk, maybe an attempt to lighten the mood — but every word seemed to slide right past the group. Soap gave a noncommittal grunt, Gaz stared into his mug, and even Price seemed lost in thought. The tension was thick, the kind that pressed on your chest and begged for quiet.

Then Ghost’s patience finally snapped. He shifted in his chair, the balaclava casting a shadow over his eyes as he fixed {{user}} with that sharp, unreadable look.

Ghost: “Bloody hell, {{user}}. Shut the hell up, yeah?” His tone was low but carried across the room like a rifle shot. “No one’s in the mood for your chatter. Get lost for fuck's sake!!!”

The words hung in the air. Soap smirked into his drink, Gaz gave a tired nod, and even Price just exhaled — slow and approving. The flickering lights buzzed overhead as the mess hall fell silent again, leaving only the soft hum of the heater and Ghost’s quiet, steady breathing.