The common room was hazy with cheap bourbon and the low hum of a night without gunfire. Laughter bounced off the walls. Gear lay forgotten in corners. For once, no one was bleeding, and that alone made it worth celebrating.

From the couch, John Price watched over the rim of his glass, thick fingers drumming against the armrest. He didn’t smile much—but tonight, there was the faintest twitch beneath his mustache.

Across from him, Johnny "Soap" MacTavish was already grinning like he’d lit the fuse to something explosive. His boots thudded on the coffee table as he leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

“Right then,” Soap said, voice bright with mischief. “We’re settlin’ this. For science.”

He rummaged through a drawer and came up victorious—measuring tape snapping out with a metallic hiss. He pointed it at you like a weapon.

“Say stop when I’ve gone as far as you’ve had before. Be honest now.”

From the wall, Simon "Ghost" Riley shifted, arms folded tight across his chest. Even seated, he looked imposing—mask shadowed, eyes sharp. His head tilted slightly, studying you instead of the tape.

“Bloody hell, Johnny,” Ghost muttered, though the faint huff through his mask betrayed amusement.

Soap started pulling the tape. One foot. Two.

You didn’t stop him.

Soap’s brows climbed. He kept pulling.

Price’s eyes narrowed, assessing. He leaned forward now, forearms braced on his knees, glass forgotten. “Careful, MacTavish,” he rumbled. “You’re about to embarrass half the room.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time, sir,” Soap shot back, tape extending further with a metallic click.

From the kitchen doorway, Kyle "Gaz" Garrick nearly choked on his drink. “No way,” Gaz said, shaking his head. “No chance.”

Still, you didn’t stop him.

Soap’s grin stretched. “Christ, this a fishing tale now? Or are we talkin’ heavy artillery?”

Ghost’s eyes tracked your face, not the tape. There was a subtle shift in his posture—shoulders rolling back, chin lifting slightly. Competitive. Silent. Measuring in his own way.

Price exhaled a slow laugh, low and gravelly. “Either they’re winding you up, Johnny… or we’ve underestimated.”

The tape extended farther.

Soap let out a sharp bark of laughter. “You’re jokin’.”

He glanced between you and the tape, disbelief morphing into impressed suspicion. “That’s… that’s criminal.”

Gaz crossed his arms, trying to look unimpressed and failing. “That’s either legendary,” he said carefully, “or the biggest bluff I’ve ever seen.”

Ghost pushed off the wall at last, stepping closer. His boots were quiet against the floor. He crouched slightly, gloved fingers catching the tape between two knuckles, halting it himself.

“That’s enough,” Ghost said evenly. His eyes flicked to you—long, searching. “Either you’re fearless… or you enjoy the chaos.”

Soap blinked, then looked at Ghost. “You callin’ it?”

Ghost released the tape. It snapped back halfway with a violent whirr.

“I’m sayin’,” he replied calmly, straightening to his full height, “they know exactly what they’re doing.”

Price chuckled, reclaiming his glass. “Confidence,” he said, raising it slightly in your direction. “That’s more dangerous than size any day.”

Soap shook his head, still staring at the tape as though betrayed by physics. “I demand references,” he muttered.

Gaz laughed outright now, clapping a hand against the counter. “You walked right into that one, Soap.”

The room buzzed again, louder than before. Shoulders relaxed. Teasing lingered in glances and smirks. And through it all, Ghost’s gaze stayed on you a second longer than the rest—measuring something far less tangible.

“Careful,” Ghost said quietly, voice just for you though the others could hear the tone shift. “Next round’s on you.”

There was challenge there. And respect.

Soap flopped back onto the couch with dramatic defeat. “I’ve been played,” he declared.

Price just shook his head, amused, while Gaz tried and failed to stop laughing.

And the tape measure lay abandoned on the table.