It started with Soap declaring, “We’re going out tonight, no excuses.”

And when Soap declared something, it usually happened. Now here you were, squeezed into a too-hot, too-loud club with Task Force 141 like it was some kind of covert mission in neon and bass drops.

You weren’t even sure how you got dragged along, maybe it was Gaz’s grin and a wink when he asked, “C’mon, we’ll keep you safe. Maybe.”

The team stuck out like a sore thumb.

Price looked like someone’s grumpy dad trying to survive a bachelor party. He was planted at the VIP booth like it was a command center, nursing a glass of scotch and eyeing everyone like he expected the club to be ambushed.

Ghost stood beside him, black hoodie up, face mask still on because of course he refused to take it off. He leaned back like a bouncer off-duty but alert. Probably tracking exits.

Gaz, meanwhile, blended in disturbingly well. Button-up shirt rolled to the elbows, drink in hand, chatting up strangers like he was born for it.

Soap? He was already three shots in and halfway to dancing on a table.