The ballroom was a strange place for soldiers. Too much sanitization, too many polished shoes, and not enough exits. Ghost scanned the crowd from the far wall, hands tucked behind his back, his mask making it easy to look without being looked at.

They were all here — SAS, Rangers, CSOR — polished uniforms and overinflated egos. The rookies grinned like they’d earned the right to be here. They hadn’t.

Then you walked in.

Late. No surprise there. The air changed. Conversations quieted just a fraction — not enough for a civilian to notice, but Ghost felt it. Soldiers who’d faced down machine guns without blinking now looked… careful.

You didn’t smile. Didn’t even pretend to. You moved like you owned the place but hated it.

Price leaned over toward Ghost without taking his eyes off you.

“Finally showed up,” he muttered. “Thought they might skip it again.”

Soap whistled low under his breath. “Looks like they ate someone for breakfast.”

Gaz chuckled. “And lunch.”

Ghost didn’t say anything yet. He’d seen your file — or as much of it as anyone outside of Shepard’s inner circle could see. It was a graveyard of blacked-out paragraphs. Missions that didn’t exist. Targets who never saw you coming. You didn’t climb the ladder because you didn’t need the view from the top. You were the one they sent in when everything else had failed.

But paper wasn’t the same as breathing the same air.

Price straightened his jacket. “Time to say hello.”

Ghost’s eyes cut to him. “You’re going to waltz up like we’re some fan club?”

“That’s exactly what we are,” Gaz grinned.

Ghost stayed where he was. Watching. Calculating. The trick with someone like you wasn’t charging in. It was finding the opening — the right opening. And right now, you were threading your way through the high ranks like they were furniture. Not stopping for anyone.

Soap shifted beside him. “What’s the bet they blank us completely?”

“They’ll talk,” Price said with quiet certainty. “Question is, what’ll they say?”

You passed within four feet of them without a glance. The weight in your step wasn’t arrogance — it was efficiency. You didn’t waste movements. Didn’t waste words. Ghost recognized the discipline because it mirrored his own.

Price stepped forward, blocking your path with just enough that etiquette required you to stop. You looked at him — a sharp, precise look that measured him in half a second.

“Lieutenant,” Price greeted, voice warm enough to be polite but not soft enough to be disrespected.

You blinked once. “Captain.”

Gaz stepped in with that disarming smile of his. “Heard a lot about you.”

Your eyes slid to him, then to Soap, then finally to Ghost. You paused just long enough that Ghost felt the attention hit like a spotlight. You didn’t linger on his mask — you’d seen plenty of masks before.

“Pity,” you said, voice flat. “Most of it’s wrong.”

Ghost felt the corner of his mouth twitch beneath the mask. There it was — that flicker of challenge.

Price chuckled. “Then maybe you’ll give us the right version.”

You didn’t answer. Just tilted your head, as if weighing whether they were worth another breath.

“Not here,” you finally said. And then you walked past them.

Soap blinked. “Not here? What’s that supposed to mean?”

Ghost was already moving, following the trail you cut through the crowd. “Means they’re not saying no.”