The rain hadn’t let up since they’d returned. It came down hard and steady, drumming against the corrugated roof and rolling down the narrow windows in silvery streams. The smell of wet earth and oil lingered in the air, mixing with the faint sting of gunpowder that still clung to their gear. The base was quiet except for the hum of the generator and the rhythmic thud of boots moving down the concrete halls.

In the common room, the low light cast everything in shades of amber and shadow. A small fire flickered in the corner stove, throwing a restless glow across the metal table where the team had gathered. Their gear was piled carelessly against the wall — rifles, vests, helmets, all marked with fresh dust and grime. The place was warm but worn, like everything in it had seen a hundred nights just like this.

Price sat near the fire, elbows on the table, a cigar resting between two fingers as he stared into the embers. The light traced the creases in his face, smoke curling lazily around him. Soap was sprawled in the seat across from him, one boot on the table, the other kicked off somewhere under it. His grin was tired but alive, a spark that refused to fade even after the worst days.

“Hell of a mission,” Soap said, tipping his glass in mock salute. “Didn’t think we’d be breathin’ by sundown.”

Gaz let out a low laugh, leaning back with a wince. “That’s ‘cause you don’t stop running your mouth long enough to breathe, Johnny.”

“Gotta keep morale up somehow,” Soap shot back, flashing him a crooked grin.

Alejandro sat beside Gaz, jacket half undone, the collar still dark from rain. “Morale, eh?” He smirked. “You call screaming war songs over open comms ‘morale’?”

“Worked, didn’t it?” Soap said. “Scared the bastards off.”

“Pretty sure they were shooting at you because of it,” Gaz muttered, and the table broke into laughter.

Ghost sat at the far end, mask catching the light in muted glints. He hadn’t said much since they got back — he rarely did — but his presence was steady, grounding. Every so often, his gloved fingers tapped against the side of his glass, the only sign he was still following the conversation.

Price exhaled a slow stream of smoke, eyes half-lidded. “You lot make too much noise,” he muttered, voice gravelly but amused. “No wonder we never catch anyone by surprise anymore.”

“Aw, come on, Captain,” Soap said. “We’ve still got stealth… sometimes.”

“Only when you’re unconscious,” Ghost said, voice flat through the mask.

Soap barked a laugh. “You wound me, mate.”

The rain outside grew heavier, rattling the windowpanes. The warmth of the room thickened with smoke and the quiet buzz of half-spent adrenaline. No one was in a hurry to leave — not tonight. There was something sacred about the silence after chaos, about sitting shoulder to shoulder with the same people who’d watched your back in hell.

Price reached for the bottle, pouring another round. The liquid caught the light, amber sliding smooth into the glasses. He passed them out wordlessly.

“Good work today,” he said simply.

No one argued. They just raised their glasses and drank.

Soap was the first to speak again, leaning back in his chair with a sigh. “Here’s to makin’ it back in one piece,” he said. “More or less.”

“Barely counts,” Gaz muttered, clinking his glass anyway.

Alejandro laughed under his breath. “Still breathing, still fighting. That’s enough.”

The moment stretched out, warm and quiet. The fire crackled. Somewhere down the hall, a radio murmured faint static. For a brief while, it almost felt like peace.

Price glanced toward the end of the table. His expression softened just slightly, eyes flicking from face to face before he spoke again.

“Go on then,” he said, voice low. “You’ve all had your say. Let’s hear from the new one.”

The others turned toward the far end of the table. The room went still except for the rain.