The ride to London had been utter bedlam. The chopper bucked and rattled like it had a personal vendetta, wind screaming through the cabin as if it wanted everyone dead. At one point, Ghost just… yeeted a rookie straight out the side door. No hesitation, no warning—just grabbed him by the vest and pitched him into the gray blur of city below.

“Bloody hell, Ghost!” Soap had howled, clutching the seat.

“He’ll walk it off,” Ghost grunted, like he’d just thrown out the trash. And, to be fair, the bird was basically landing anyway, so the rookie only ate about six feet of dirt. Lucky bastard.

But that wasn’t even the real madness.

Price, in his infinite wisdom, decided the perfect way to de-stress after near-death turbulence was a trip to the mall. Civilian clothes, casual stroll, normal-people stuff. You, Soap, Gaz, Ghost, and Roach—all blending in like slightly suspicious mannequins someone forgot to dress properly. Price’s idea of "relaxation" was apparently retail therapy.

“Act natural,” Gaz muttered, tugging at his hoodie.

“You look dodgier than a bloke in a ski mask,” Soap shot back, watching you shoving your hands in your pockets.

“Relaxation, lads,” Price reminded, voice like gravel wrapped in honey. “We’re here to blend in. No violence. No chaos.”

Which was, of course, the exact moment chaos kicked the door in.

The second you stepped into the restaurant, something hit. Not visually. Not audibly. No, it was the smell. A soft, insidious waft threading through the air. Oily. Sharp. Burned at the edges. That smell. The one that didn’t just carry a memory—it dragged you back into it, claws and all. The smell of the dish that had been simmering on a street corner just before the bomb in Lower London went off.

The whole squad froze like puppets cut from their strings.

You heard Soap’s laugh die in his throat. Roach stiffened so hard his chair screeched against the floor. Gaz’s face drained, and even Ghost—stoic, unmoving Ghost—snapped his head toward the kitchen like a predator catching scent of blood.

“No, no, no—” Soap muttered, shaking his head, hands twitching like he wanted to reach for a rifle that wasn’t there.

Your chest tightened, breath catching in your lungs. The room felt too loud. Every clatter of dishes was gunfire. Every murmur of voices was screaming. That smell wasn’t food anymore—it was smoke, fire, bodies.

“Breathe,” Price ordered, low and sharp, like he could drag you back to the present by command alone.

But your hands were already trembling.

Roach whispered, “It smells just like—”

“Don’t say it,” Ghost cut him off, voice more vicious than you’d ever heard, but his shoulders were tense, his mask turning toward you all like even he was about to unravel.

And then someone behind the counter called out cheerfully, “Order up! Lamb stew!”

You swore the whole table flinched like a gun had gone off.