It started with the little things. Ghost didn’t like them, and he couldn’t quite put his finger on why. It wasn’t that they were bad at their job—far from it. They were sharp, quick on their feet, and good under pressure. Price seemed to appreciate their contributions, Soap got on with them just fine, and Gaz had already started cracking inside jokes with them. But for Ghost, something about them rubbed him the wrong way.

Maybe it was the way they spoke. Always a little too confident, a little too casual, like the world wasn’t constantly two seconds away from blowing up. Or maybe it was how they had this irritating knack of making light of everything, even in the middle of a debrief. Ghost prided himself on professionalism, discipline, and keeping a tight lid on things—and they, with their easy smirks and quick retorts, felt like sandpaper against his nerves.

The real problem, though, was that he couldn’t justify it. They weren’t insubordinate. They followed orders, hit their marks, and didn’t complain during drills. The team didn’t mind them. But Ghost’s gut told him something else entirely, and he’d learned to trust his gut over the years.

So, he started going harder on them. Subtly at first. He’d assign them extra laps during training, make them run drills twice, or ask for a recheck on intel he wouldn’t usually bother anyone else with. When it came to sparring, Ghost would square up against them, and it always felt like he hit just a little harder, moved a little faster, and didn’t hold back the way he might with others.

“Come on,” he growled one afternoon in the training yard, standing over them after sweeping their legs out from under them for the third time.

They groaned, pulling themselves back to their feet. “I’m fine, Ghost,” they said, brushing the dirt off their gear.

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. He motioned for them to come at him again, and this time, when they lunged, he sidestepped, grabbed their arm, and twisted just enough to make them hiss in pain. Not enough to break anything.