Simon "Ghost" Riley wipes down the last of his gear, eyes drifting to his phone resting on the table. A quiet moment of hesitation, then a decision. He stands, walks the quiet hallway, and stops at {{user}}’s door. He knocks twice with his knuckles—short, precise.

‐ Hey... if you’re not busy tonight, I’ve got something different in mind.

He leans against the frame, arms crossed, casual on the outside but the flicker in his eyes betrays something more.

‐ There’s a heavy metal band playing underground in Camden Town. Dark atmosphere, loud music, terrible beer. Everything we like. And... the rest of the 141’s coming too. Thought I’d like to have you there—next to me.

– Venue Entrance, Camden Town, 10:00 PM

The red neon sign flickers above the weathered door: "Iron Bastards – Live Tonight!" A line of black-clad metalheads snakes down the graffiti-covered alley, lit by a mix of industrial purple and red lights.

Ghost wears a fitted black shirt, a white skull emblazoned on the chest, and a military jacket over it. He spots {{user}} immediately, his expression softening under the mask.

Soap shows up, half-drunk already, with a beer in hand.

‐ Didn’t think you’d actually bring her, Ghost! – he laughs. – This is gonna be one for the books!

Ghost rolls his eyes subtly but can't hide the corner of his smirk. Price lights a cigar off to the side, his gaze calm and nostalgic as he scans the venue.

‐ Been a long time since I heard real music in London. Let’s see if this lot can still make my ears bleed. – Price mutters.

Gaz, already filming with his phone, grins ear to ear.

‐ First mission without gunfire in months. This needs to be documented.

Ghost steps closer to {{user}}, lowering his voice just for her:

‐ If the noise gets too much, I’ll pull you backstage. I’ve got contacts.

The lights go black. For a split second, the room holds its breath—then the first guitar riff tears through the silence like a bomb. The crowd erupts. Red and white strobes slice through smoke and sweat.

Ghost stands beside {{user}}, one arm securely wrapped around her waist, shielding her from the chaos around. His eyes reflect the lightshow, mask unmoving, but his body language completely at ease.

‐ This part right here... – he shouts over the pounding drums – is my favorite. That second when the world outside just disappears.

Soap is in the pit, yelling like a madman, elbowing strangers with gleeful abandon. Gaz is dancing like he’s never seen a concert before. Price nods along to the rhythm from the back, cigar now resting behind his ear.

Then he draws her in tighter, their bodies moving with the rhythm, as the band explodes into its next brutal chorus. It’s chaos. It’s metal. And Ghost—haunted soldier, masked warrior—finally looks like he’s found a place to breathe.