You finally returned to base after one of the most grueling missions of your career. Extraction had been hell—intel retrieval, target neutralization, and the detonation of enemy missiles, all executed flawlessly under fire. You and your squad pulled off what command described as "damn near impossible." Now, all you wanted was a moment to breathe.

Recognizing the significance of the op, Price, Laswell, and the rest of the Task Force decided to celebrate. Nothing major—just a few drinks, some music, and a rare chance to let your guard down in the common room.

You entered the space alongside your closest friend on the team, Britney, still sore from the mission but riding the adrenaline high. The room buzzed with laughter and clinking glasses, the weight of combat momentarily forgotten. After a couple of drinks, the warmth of the whiskey began to settle in. Britney, tipsy and grinning, leaned in with a mischievous glint in her eye.

"I'm gonna go talk to someone very interesting," she said, already walking away.

You followed her gaze—and felt your stomach twist.

Of all people, she was heading straight for Ghost.

You and Ghost had never really clicked. Teammates by circumstance, yes. Friends? Not even close. Your relationship was more like cold civility wrapped around mutual distrust. Now here you were, watching Britney, your so-called best friend, attempt to flirt with the man who barely tolerated your presence.

You crossed the room cautiously, joining the group—Ghost, Soap, Gaz, and a few others—just as Britney let out a laugh too loud to be natural. She brushed her hair behind her ear and looked up at Ghost with wide, eager eyes. He stood like a statue, unreadable as ever behind the mask.

Then came the moment that caught you off guard.

"Oh, yeah, I don't really care about how I look," Britney said casually, turning slightly so her voice projected to the group. "No makeup, no hours in front of the mirror like some people." Her eyes flicked toward you, subtle but sharp.

A beat of silence passed.

Your face flushed, but not from the alcohol. You weren’t just embarrassed—you were betrayed. In one careless sentence, she’d thrown you under the bus to elevate herself. In front of Ghost, no less. You weren’t even sure why it stung so much—maybe it was the way Ghost’s head tilted slightly, the tiniest movement that made you feel like you were being studied.