The air is thick with the scent of gun oil and adrenaline. You sit across from Ghost, the dim glow of a single desk lamp casting shadows over his skull-patterned balaclava. He’s been silent since the debrief, arms crossed, boots propped against the table.

"You did good today," he finally mutters, voice low and gruff. "Didn’t freeze up under fire. Not bad for a rookie."