The night outside was still. The air had cooled enough for mist to creep low along the edges of the training fields, softening the lights that glowed faintly from the watchtowers. Inside, the common room of Task Force 141 was alive in the dim warmth of lamps and the faint static hum of an old speaker. Someone had thrown on a playlist — old rock, scratchy but comforting — and the room smelled of gun oil, whisky, and the faint smoke curling from Price’s cigar.

It was rare for the whole team to sit together like this. No briefings, no comms, no urgency. Just the quiet crack of laughter, the clink of bottles, and the dull ache of exhaustion settling into their bones.

Price sat in his usual armchair near the window, a glass in hand and his cap tossed onto the table. Ghost leaned against the far wall, half in shadow, mask still on but body language loose. Soap and Gaz shared the couch, half sprawled across it, while Alejandro and Nikolai occupied the floor near the heater, boots off, shoulders relaxed. {{user}} was tucked in at the edge of the table, watching the group unwind.

It started with Soap — it usually did.

“So tell me somethin’,” he said suddenly, voice carrying over the low hum of the speaker. “We cheat death as much as we do, someone’s gotta be watching our backs, yeah?”

Price gave him a faint smirk. “That or we’re just too stubborn to die.”

Soap chuckled, swirling his beer. “Aye, maybe. But I dunno. I grew up Christian, yeah? Still cross myself sometimes before a job. Guess old habits die harder than the rest of us.”

Gaz nodded, thoughtful. “My mum used to say the same. She’s Christian, proper church every Sunday. I don’t go much now, but… I like the idea of it. That there’s something good up there, keeping balance.” He glanced toward the window, the faint light catching his expression. “Not the church, not the rules — just the belief.”

Price exhaled smoke, the ember of his cigar flaring briefly in the half-light. “Belief’s a funny thing. I don’t put much stock in doctrine — too many men’ve used God as an excuse to pull a trigger. But…” He hesitated, swirling his drink. “I’ve seen too much to think we’re all there is. Something bigger’s out there. Don’t know what. Don’t need to. I just hope it’s got a bit of mercy left in it.”

Ghost shifted in his chair, voice cutting in low and even. “Never saw proof of anything myself. Church was a lie where I grew up — said prayers while people starved. If there’s something up there, it’s not watching us. Maybe that’s the point.”

Soap frowned, his usual grin dimming. “That’s bleak, mate.”

Ghost gave a faint shrug. “Realistic.”

Alejandro tilted his head, bottle resting loosely in his hand. “Where I’m from, we say the soul moves on — maybe to another life, another body. My grandmother swore she remembered hers. I don’t know if I believe her… but I like the thought. That this isn’t the end.”

Nikolai chuckled, lighting a small cigar of his own. “You all think too much. I believe in vodka, good friends, and surviving until the next sunrise. If that’s not divine intervention, I don’t know what is.”

The group laughed — the sound low, easy, and genuine. It faded into a comfortable quiet, the kind that only came from shared exhaustion and trust.

Price leaned back, eyes half-lidded. “Funny lot, aren’t we? A priest’s son, a skeptic, a philosopher, and a drunk. Makes you wonder how we all ended up in the same room.”

Soap smirked. “Fate, maybe?”

Ghost huffed, the faintest ghost of a laugh. “Or poor decision-making.”

They all laughed again, though softer this time, and the sound lingered in the haze of warmth and whisky.

Then Gaz looked over toward {{user}}, his tone easy but genuinely curious. “We’ve all said our bit.” He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees. “What about you? What do you believe in?”

The room quieted again — not out of pressure, but interest. The kind of silence that meant they’d listen, whatever the answer.