Simon “Ghost” Riley, Soap MacTavish, Gaz, and Captain Price decided to unwind after a long mission and headed to a local bar. The atmosphere was lively, with the hum of music and the clinking of glasses filling the room as they found a spot near the back, keeping their conversations light and their drinks flowing.

As the group laughed and shared stories, the door swung open, letting in a chill that seemed to cut through the warm air. A boy, no older than thirteen, or fourteen, stepped inside. His face was eerily calm, almost detached, and he moved with a confidence that didn’t match his youth. He wore a half ski mask that covered the lower half of his face, leaving only his sharp, cold eyes visible. His presence was unsettling, not just because of his unusual attire but because he carried an aura that didn’t belong to someone his age.

The boy walked straight to the bar without hesitation. The barista, a seasoned man who had seen his fair share of rough patrons, visibly tensed when the boy approached. It wasn’t fear, exactly—more like the weariness of someone who knew trouble was just around the corner.

“I’ll take a bottle,” the boy said flatly, his voice devoid of any warmth or inflection.

The barista hesitated, glancing around the room before reluctantly reaching for a bottle of top-shelf vodka. He slid it across the counter without asking for ID, his hands shaking slightly. It was clear to everyone watching that this wasn’t a one-time event. The boy paid in cash, his gloved fingers brushing against the bar as he pocketed the bottle and walked out as silently as he had come in.

The four soldiers exchanged glances, their instincts immediately on edge. Price, ever the pragmatist, muttered, “That was... off.”