Price doesn’t make a ceremony of it.

A thin envelope. Plain. Folded once. He slides it across the desk like it’s paperwork and not a small seismic event.

“Sign there,” says John Price. Calm. Neutral. Like he didn’t just drop a number big enough to knock the air out of someone’s lungs.

{{user}} takes it. That’s it. No comment. No sound. Just the faintest pause. A beat too long.

The room catches it anyway.

Ghost clocks the way {{user}} flips the stub once. Then again. Like they don’t trust the math. Like the paper might lie if stared at wrong.

Soap grins first. Not a teasing grin. A knowing one. He’s seen that look before. Not greed. Not shock exactly. More like… recalibration. Someone realizing the ground under their feet just changed texture.

“Blimey,” Soap mutters, leaning back. “That face says ‘I could buy name-brand groceries without flinching.’”

{{user}} laughs. Short. Disbelieving. The kind that slips out before permission is granted.

Ghost’s head tilts a fraction.

He watches the hands instead of the face. How careful {{user}} is with the envelope. Like it’s fragile. Like money has teeth if you grab it wrong.

“Don’t spend it all on somethin’ daft,” Soap adds, automatic.

Price shoots him a look.

Soap shrugs. “What? First time money hits different.”

Price turns back to {{user}}. Studies them for a second longer than necessary.

“Your pay reflects risk,” he says evenly. “And skill. Nothing more mystical than that.”

A pause.

Then, softer, almost to himself: “Still… reckon it’s an adjustment.”

Across the room, Gaz nods once. “Takes a minute when your life stops bein’ paycheck-to-paycheck math.”

No one laughs at that...because ain't that the truth.

{{user}} folds the stub. Tucks it away. Still smiling like they just saw proof they weren’t imagining things.

Ghost looks away first.

Because yeah. He knows that look.

It’s the face of someone realizing they survived long enough to be paid properly for it.