The plane hummed steadily, vibration rattling through the floor, the seats, your bones. Dim lights flickered faintly, painting helmets and rifles in dull gray. The air was thick with sweat, gun oil, and smoke that clung like a second skin.

Silence wrapped around the team like a shroud.

On paper, the mission was perfect. Makarov was gone—finally. A bullet ended him, cutting off years of terror in a second. Nations would cheer, headlines would scream, but here in the belly of the aircraft, nothing felt different.

Price sat stiff, cap pulled low, thumb rolling his unlit cigar. He had wanted this longer than anyone, but his face showed no triumph—only the slump of a man who had spent himself chasing justice and found it hollow.

Gaz leaned against the bulkhead, head tipped back against cold steel, fingers tapping a frantic rhythm. Not impatience—desperation. His eyes were open but unfocused, glassy, seeing ghosts only he knew.

Ghost sat across from you, mask in place, arms folded tight, boots braced apart. He hadn’t spoken since boarding. Normally his silence steadied, but tonight even Ghost seemed fragile, like the armor of calm could crack.

And you—you sat hunched forward, hands clenched white. The image replayed: recoil in your arms, the way Makarov crumpled. No drama. No fireworks. Just a man collapsing into nothing. Years of screams, gone in an instant.

You expected relief, vindication. Instead, only hollow emptiness remained. Killing him hadn’t burned away the poison. It only left you with silence.

The engine’s drone pressed louder, every creak of metal reminding you the world still turned while you sat buried in ghosts.

Then Soap exhaled, loud and theatrical, cracking the stillness.

“Well,” he said, voice sharp in the gloom. “That was bloody anticlimactic, wasn’t it?”

Heads turned. He leaned back with a groan, arms wide like he’d just finished chores. His grin was crooked, forced—but absurd enough to stand out.

“No champagne. No fireworks. No angels singin’ overhead. Just us, sittin’ like we’ve swallowed a funeral. Honestly, if this is what savin’ the world feels like, I want my money back.”

Gaz snorted before he could stop himself, hand clamping over his mouth. Price’s lips twitched, the smallest flicker of a smile. Even Ghost tilted his head slightly, weighing whether Soap had lost it or saved them.

Soap leaned forward. “Come on, lads, lass—we killed Makarov. The bogeyman, the bastard, the headache of half the bloody world! Where’s the cheer? Where’s the clap? Not even a pity round? Fine, then.”

He clapped for himself, slow and obnoxious, echoing through the cabin. Clap. Clap. Clap. “There. That’s more like it. I’ll do the whole applause track myself if I’ve got to.”

Gaz gave in, adding sarcastic pats until Soap grinned like he’d won. Price struck a match, muttering “Bloody idiot” as he lit his cigar. Ghost didn’t laugh, but his shoulders eased, the steel loosening.

Soap slapped his knees. “Right then. Drinks are on me when we land. And if any of you start brooding again, I’ll do karaoke. Don’t test me—I know every word to ABBA.”

This time Gaz chuckled openly. The heaviness didn’t vanish, but it shifted. It wasn’t crushing anymore. It was shared. And for the first time since Makarov fell, you remembered what it felt like to breathe.