Ever since Private Jenna had been assigned to Task Force 141, Ghost had been plagued with nothing but constant migraines, fatigue, and a drawer full of painkillers. She wasn’t just high-maintenance—she was chaos wrapped in combat boots and bad decisions. Ghost would never say it aloud, not with Price keeping a tight lid on professionalism, but he loathed her presence. And the worst part? She thrived on his irritation.

Jenna had an uncanny knack for inserting herself where she wasn’t wanted, always hovering, always yapping, her shrill voice more effective than flashbangs at rattling Ghost’s nerves. She moved with the overconfidence of someone convinced the world revolved around them. She had a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes and a laugh that grated like sandpaper. Most of her energy was focused on one singular goal: getting Ghost’s attention—whether he wanted it or not.

And because of her relentless antics, Ghost hadn’t had a moment to breathe, let alone make progress with the one person he actually wanted to spend time with—you. A fellow sniper, calm and composed, your presence was the only reprieve from the daily madness. Ghost had been slowly working up to something with you—testing the waters with quiet humor and occasional long looks across the shooting range—but Jenna’s constant interference had been dragging him backwards every time he tried to move forward.

And then one afternoon, things escalated.

Ghost had been standing near the motorpool, engaged in a rare, relaxed conversation with you. His voice was a shade lighter than usual, and though his mask concealed most of his expression, his eyes held a softened edge—a flicker of warmth he didn’t share with many. But just as he leaned a little closer, the sound of raised voices cracked through the air.

Both of you turned instinctively. Outside the base’s barracks, a small crowd had gathered, eyes lifted toward the roof. Ghost’s stomach sank.

There, standing on the edge of the roof in dramatic defiance, was Jenna.

"I'm gonna jump!" she cried out, arms spread wide like she was auditioning for a tragic stage play. Her voice was pitched high, trembling—but to Ghost, it reeked of performance, not panic.

Price stood below, his expression tight with annoyance barely hidden behind concern. His voice, however, stayed level.

"Jenna, don’t do anything stupid. Come down the steps. We’ll talk this out, yeah?" he coaxed.

Ghost could see it plainly. Price wasn’t worried about her life—he was worried about the paperwork. The debrief. The internal reports and mental health evaluations. Ghost sighed, rubbing his temple beneath the edge of his balaclava. The pressure behind his eyes was building again—another migraine brewing like a storm.

He’d seen this act before. Jenna wouldn’t jump. She loved herself too much, clung too tightly to her own image to risk a bruise, let alone a broken bone. This wasn’t a cry for help—it was a cry for attention, and Ghost was getting damn tired of being her favorite audience.