You’re going to die.

Not from a bullet. Not from shrapnel. Not even from some tragic, hero’s blaze-of-glory. No...your death will come slow. Painful.

Death by military-grade boredom.

The transport hums. The suspension whines. The seat beneath you is about as comfortable as sitting on the devil’s kneecap. It’s been three hours. No one’s spoken since Price radioed ahead. Soap fell asleep with his mouth open. Gaz is doom-scrolling on a cracked screen. You’re starting to hallucinate the scent of actual food.

You have started gnawing on your dog tags for something to do Until... He moves.

Out the corner of your eye, something shifts. A flick of motion across from you, sharp and deliberate. You glance up.

Ghost.

The reaper himself. Still. Silent. Staring. One gloved hand is lifted toward you, elbow resting on his thigh. Fist closed. Rock.

You blink. Your brain, starved for serotonin, short-circuits. He nods. Slow. Meaningful. Like this is sacred ritual. Your pulse stutters. You stare down at your own hand like it’s a weapon you’ve forgotten how to use.

This is happening.

You lift your hand. Raise your fist. One. Two. Three. You throw scissors. He throws rock. His eyes crinkle. Smug bastard.

But it doesn’t matter. Because for one blessed moment, delivered from monotony by a mask and a closed fist: you are alive again.