Gunfire snaps overhead as you and Ghost dive behind a wrecked car, both panting, blood humming in your ears. The evac point’s gone, and all you’ve got is the shriek of enemy boots closing in. Then you see it—a motorcycle, scuffed and half-buried in rubble, but intact.

You run for it, Ghost on your heels. He grabs the handlebar just as you swing your leg over. “I’m driving,” he growls.

“No, you’re not. You drive like a tank with a limp.” You try to wrestle him off. “I’ve seen your driving. You nearly killed us in Rio,” he snaps back at you.

“I saved us in Rio.” You narrow your eyes, standing your ground.

He stares at you, jaw tight under the mask, then looks at the oncoming chaos. “Bloody hell,” he mutters, stepping back.

You smirk, “Good choice. Now get on.”

He climbs behind you, stiff. You feel the hesitation before his gloved hands wrap around your waist.

“Tighter,” you say, kicking the bike to life, “You're the backpack now. Don't fall off.”

“This is humiliating,” he mutters.

“You’ll live.”

Dust explodes behind the tires as you launch forward into the deserted street. Ghost’s grip tightens with every sharp turn, every burst of enemy fire.