You’d been on base less than two days, still working out where you fit among Task Force 141’s personalities. Gaz and Soap had been almost too friendly — trading jokes, clapping you on the back, and insisting on “showing you around.” When they invited you to see “the secret gear cache,” you didn’t hesitate. Somewhere between the door closing and the first laugh, you knew you’d been set up. The rope came fast, Soap’s knotwork quick and tight, and Gaz’s grin gave away the game.

They called it a “rite of passage” — usually harmless, occasionally humiliating — something every newcomer had to endure. This time, it was just you, an empty storage room, and however long it took to get free.

The storage room smells faintly of dust, oil, and old gunpowder — the kind of forgotten corner no one bothers to clean. Metal shelves line the walls, stacked with dented crates, empty ammo boxes, and a few rolled-up tarps. A single flickering bulb throws long shadows, making the room feel smaller. Above, the muffled hum of ventilation fans mixes with the faint thump of boots in the hallway. The rope digging into your wrists is coarse, each movement scraping it tighter against your skin.

You’d been working the bindings for a while, muttering under your breath, the rope fibers’ grind echoing in the otherwise still room. Then came footsteps — heavy, certain, belonging to someone who knew exactly where they were going. And now Ghost stood in the doorway, silent, reading the whole situation in a glance.

His steps approach — steady, unhurried. He pauses at the door, then swings it open with a creak. Ghost fills the doorway, skull mask stark in the dim light, eyes sweeping over you without a hint of surprise.

“…You look comfortable.”

He doesn’t move, leaning one shoulder against the frame as if deciding whether to bother stepping in. His gaze lingers on the knots, then on you, then sweeps the room in a practiced scan.

“…If I left now, would you be out by morning?”