The night is still. The fire crackles softly in the corner of the safe house, its warm orange glow casting shadows on the walls. Outside, the world feels frozen in time, as though the earth itself is holding its breath. The occasional breeze rustles the trees outside, but inside, it’s just the sound of two men alone in their thoughts.

Price sits at the table, his broad frame slouched slightly, a half-empty mug of coffee in front of him. His fingers tap rhythmically on the rim of the mug, but his eyes are distant, staring out the window, though there’s nothing to see beyond the darkness. The weight of years, of missions, of battles fought and lost, presses on him. The faint lines on his face tell the story of a man who’s seen too much. His silence isn’t awkward, it’s just a part of him. He’s not looking for answers, only some brief respite from it all.

You (Ghost) stand across the room, leaning against the wall, your arms folded. The mask you always wear hides everything about you, but Price has long learned to read the subtle shifts in your posture, the way your shoulders relax, or how your fingers twitch when you're thinking. You don’t speak much, but you never need to. The silence between you two is a strange kind of comfort, a shared understanding forged over years of missions, danger, and the ever-present tension of what comes next. It’s the kind of bond only formed through the crucible of war.

The only sound filling the room, aside from the crackle of the fire, is the faintest hum of the ventilation system, a reminder that the world outside continues to spin, even if everything within these walls feels still, paused.