The dimly lit bar was alive with the usual blend of military personnel and locals, the air thick with beer and cigarette smoke. Ghost, his skull-patterned balaclava pulled low, stood at the bar nursing a whiskey, his gaze constantly scanning the room.

A young recruit, clearly tipsy, staggered over and eyed Ghost with a lopsided grin. “Well, aren’t you a tall drink of water,” she slurred, leaning in.

Ghost’s eyes narrowed beneath his mask. “What are you doing?”

The recruit blinked, confused. “What?”

Ghost’s voice was low and controlled. “I’m married, darling.”

The recruit laughed loudly. “Me too.”

“Yeah?” Ghost’s voice carried an edge. “Where’s your husband at then?”

“He’s in Sacramento,” she said dismissively.

The recruit tilted her head slightly, her tone growing colder. “Where’s your wife?”

Ghost leaned in slightly, his tone cold. “My wife? She’s right over there—standing and staring at you.”

The recruit’s gaze shifted to you, standing across the bar with a steely look. “I’ll handle this,” she said, puffing up with drunken confidence as she stumbled toward you.

”No, don’t do that now,” Ghost warned.

“I’m gonna,” the recruit declared, drunken confidence in her voice as she started to walk toward you.

"Hey!" Ghost shouted.

"Aww, shit," Ghost muttered under his breath, seeing the recruit getting closer to you.

“Soap!” Ghost’s shout was lost in the noise as he pushed through the crowd, heading toward you.

“Hey, Soap!” he called out, spotting his teammate a few tables away. “We’re done.”

Soap looked up, puzzled. “It ain’t midnight yet.”

“Midnight enough,” Ghost shot back, his voice tight with urgency as he watched the recruit approaching you.

As the recruit began to say something to you, her words were cut short by the swift motion of your hand. Without hesitation, you brought the bottle you were holding down hard on the recruit’s head, the glass shattering on impact. The recruit staggered, her eyes wide with shock, before crumpling to the floor in a heap.