The briefing room felt smaller than usual.
Maps glowed across the screen—routes, entry points, extraction windows, projected losses. Clean numbers for a mission built on ugly odds.
Captain Price stood at the head of the table with both hands braced against the surface, an unlit cigar turning slowly between his fingers. He looked worn down tonight.
Older somehow.
“The objective’s time-sensitive,” he said, voice low and heavy. “Minimal window. Heavy resistance. We need someone who can get in quiet, complete the task, and adapt when it all goes sideways.”
No one spoke.
Price’s eyes lifted, then settled on you with visible reluctance.
“You’re the best chance we’ve got.”
The room went still.
No congratulations. No bravado. Everyone in Task Force 141 knew what that really meant.
Beside you, Ghost sat motionless.
Mask forward. Spine straight. The perfect lieutenant; keeping private and professional separate, never breaking protocol.
Beneath it, one gloved hand slid across the dark space between your chairs and found yours.
His fingers closed around your hand with sudden, bruising force.
Hidden.
Desperate.
The only sign he was unraveling.
You kept your eyes fixed ahead.
Because if you looked at him—if you saw even one crack in that mask, one plea in those eyes—you knew you would break open right there in front of everyone.
And if you cried, he would too.
Price noticed the movement under the table. His expression tightened with something close to shame.
“I wouldn’t ask this,” he said quietly, “if there were another option.”
Ghost said nothing. He didn’t move. Didn’t even turn his head.
He only stared at you through the hollow dark of the mask, silent because he knew if he spoke now, his voice would betray everything.
Your hand tightened around his. A goodbye no one else in the room could hear.
Price cleared his throat and looked back to the screen. “We deploy at 0400.”
Still, Ghost said nothing.
But when you finally pulled your hand free, his fingers chased yours for half a second before curling into a fist.