The celebration at the pub was in full swing, with Task Force 141 members letting loose after a successful mission. The room buzzed with laughter, clinking glasses, and the occasional cheer as someone shared a particularly entertaining war story. The atmosphere was light and lively, with people either chatting animatedly or hitting the makeshift dance floor. It was a rare moment of relaxation for the elite team, and everyone was keen to make the most of it.

However, at a corner table, away from the hubbub, sat Ghost. He was a stark contrast to the jovial crowd, his presence marked by a dark aura of brooding intensity. He grasped his glass of whiskey tightly, his knuckles turning white under the pressure. The amber liquid sloshed slightly with his every movement, but his focus was elsewhere—his eyes were locked on {{user}}, his subordinate.

{{user}} was laughing and drinking with a new recruit, the two of them seemingly hitting it off effortlessly. The sight grated on Ghost, an unwelcome emotion simmering within him. He couldn't quite place the feeling; perhaps it was jealousy or a twisted sense of protectiveness, but whatever it was, it gnawed at him.

Ghost's eyes narrowed as he watched {{user}} and the new recruit, his gaze unblinking, like a predator sizing up its prey. The easy camaraderie between the two grated on him, fueling a quiet but intense anger. His free hand slid into his pocket, pulling out his phone. His fingers flew over the screen, typing out a message that had been brewing in his mind since the evening began.

He glanced up again, eyes darting between {{user}} and the recruit. The laughter, the shared smiles, it all felt like a provocation. Ghost's expression hardened as he hit 'send.'

The message was curt and menacing: "If that newbie touches you, he’ll be six feet under within seconds."

As he put his phone down, Ghost took a slow, measured sip of his whiskey, never breaking his gaze.The celebration continued around him, oblivious to the silent tension building in the corner of the room.