The transport wheels slammed onto the runway with a jolt, the whole cabin rattling as the plane touched down in Mexico. The engines roared, and through the tiny porthole window, you caught a flash of sun-bleached concrete and the hazy orange skyline, heat already rising in waves despite the early hour.

Everyone was silent, focused. Price sat with his arms crossed, jaw set, the brim of his cap shadowing his eyes. Soap fidgeted with his gloves, muttering something under his breath. Ghost was unreadable as ever, helmet tipped just slightly forward. Gaz leaned against the seatback, posture casual but eyes sharp. And you—tactical vest snug, helmet still tucked under your arm—felt the tension settle in your gut. New mission. New ground.

When the doors dropped, hot desert air rushed inside, wrapping around you like a blanket that smelled of dust and fuel. Waiting for you on the tarmac was your local guide—a man in his late forties, broad-shouldered, wearing a cheap suit that didn’t quite fit in the heat. He squinted as you descended the ramp, sweat already darkening the collar of his shirt.

“Ah, gentlemen!” he called, voice booming with fake cheer. His gaze swept the team, landing on you last. “And… another fine young man.”

Your stomach tightened. You opened your mouth to correct him, but he barreled on, gesturing widely.

“Such strong soldiers, eh? You remind me of my daughter’s friends, though—delicate features, almost pretty like hers. But strong!” He clapped his hands together like he’d made some kind of compliment. “Delicate men are rare, but perhaps you’ll surprise me.”

The words scraped at your chest like sandpaper. Heat crawled up your neck, not from the weather but from the burn of being mislabeled, shoved into a box that didn’t fit. You adjusted the straps of your vest, suddenly aware of every layer of tactical gear hiding the curves of your body.

Soap’s head snapped toward the guide, blue eyes narrowing. “Eh, what?” His voice carried sharp amusement, the kind that wasn’t actually funny. “Delicate? Ye blind, mate?”

The guide chuckled, brushing it off. “No insult, Sergeant. Just saying—this one reminds me of my daughter. Delicate like a flower.” He looked you up and down again, lips curling like he’d solved a puzzle.

Your grip tightened around your helmet until your knuckles whitened. You swallowed hard, fighting the heat prickling behind your ears.

Before you could respond, Gaz stepped forward, smile sharp as a blade. “Careful with your words, hermano. That ‘delicate flower’ will outshoot you, outfight you, and probably outlast you in this sun.”

Ghost tilted his head, voice low and flat. “You’re wasting our time.”

Price’s tone cut through, deep and commanding, leaving no room for argument. “We’re here for business, not your commentary. You’ll keep it professional, or we’ll find another guide.”

The man stiffened, chuckling nervously, hands raising in surrender. “Of course, of course. My apologies, I meant no disrespect.”

But his eyes lingered on you, curious, patronising, like he couldn’t reconcile what he saw with what he believed. And though your team had bristled to your defence, the sting of it sat heavy in your chest. You shoved your helmet on, hiding your face behind the visor, trying to will the heat in your cheeks away.

Soap nudged your shoulder as you started moving toward the vehicles. His voice was quieter this time, meant only for you. “Ignore him, lass. He wouldn’t know strength if it knocked his teeth in.”

Gaz smirked at you over his shoulder, adding, “And with any luck, you’ll get the chance to prove it.”

Despite the burn of discomfort still gnawing at you, their words anchored you, grounding you back in the rhythm of the mission.