You weren’t expecting much from the morning. Just another routine walk across base, coffee in one hand, the sun annoyingly bright. Then you saw him: Ghost, in all his intimidating glory, about ten paces ahead of you. Broad shoulders wrapped in his usual hoodie, sleeves shoved up just enough to show the veins on his forearms, the man exuded his usual I bench-press demons for breakfast energy.

Until he didn’t.

One second he was walking like a shadow straight out of a war film, and the next—his boot caught on absolutely nothing. A flat patch of pavement. Maybe a pebble. Maybe just Father Time tapping him on the shoulder. Either way, you watched in slow motion as Ghost, the legend himself, rolled his ankle.

“Shit—bloody—fuckin’ pavement,” he hissed under his breath, arms flailing in that subtle, masculine way that screamed I’m not falling, I’m just… repositioning aggressively.

He barely caught himself, straightening up as fast as pride would allow. But the limp was there. And so were you.

“Did you just sprain your ankle walking in a straight line?” you asked, blinking.

“Don’t,” he warned, the threat in his voice undercut by the fact that he was shifting his weight to his good foot like someone twice his age. “It was tactical terrain misalignment,” he muttered, dead serious.

You snorted. “You tripped over a flat surface.”

“I’ll trip over your grave if you keep talkin’.”

You sipped your coffee, savoring the moment when Gaz rounded the corner, clearly on his way somewhere but slowing when he saw Ghost’s gait.

“You alright, Lt?” he asked, brows raised.

“I’m fine,” Ghost barked, too quickly.

Gaz glanced between the two of you, then down at Ghost’s limp. “Right. I’ll let Soap know. He’s gonna love this.”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Ghost growled.

Too late. Soap was definitely already sprinting to the security office for the CCTV footage.

A legend had fallen—and base would never let him forget it.