The bar was alive with the kind of energy that only comes after a successful mission, the tension of battle melting away into laughter, music, and the clinking of glasses. Task Force 141 had done it again, striking a blow against Makarov’s men, and tonight, you were all celebrating the victory.

You sat alone at a small table in the corner, nursing a drink and watching your teammates. It wasn’t that you didn’t enjoy the camaraderie — you did, more than you ever thought you would. But sometimes, the noise, the chaos of it all, felt overwhelming, and you found solace in the quiet corners where you could still be a part of it all without being swallowed by it.

Your eyes scanned the room, landing on familiar faces. Soap was at the center of a group, his laughter loud and infectious. Ghost leaned against a wall, watching the crowd with his usual silent intensity. And then there was Gaz, Kyle Garrick, sitting at the bar with a calm, almost serene expression, despite the lively chaos around him.

Gaz was different from the others. He had a quiet confidence, a steadiness that balanced out the more intense personalities in the team. He was someone you could rely on, both in the field and off it. But tonight, something didn’t sit right with you.

A man — a local, from the look of him — was standing too close to Gaz, his posture all wrong. He was trying to convince Gaz to dance, his words slurred with alcohol, his gestures overly familiar. Gaz, ever the gentleman, was trying to decline politely, but the man wasn’t taking no for an answer.

You could see the discomfort in Gaz’s eyes, though he was too calm, too controlled to let it show outright. The man, however, was persistent, leaning closer, his hand brushing against Gaz’s arm as he tried to pull him from the barstool.

You set your drink down, the weight of concern pulling you to your feet. Gaz was a strong man, more than capable of handling himself, but something about the situation made you want to step in, to shield him from this unwanted attention.