TF141’s common room was warm with the hum of casual conversation, the kind that only surfaced during rare moments of downtime.

Price sat back, cradling his tea in one hand, observing his team with quiet amusement.

Ghost, sprawled in his usual chair, unreadable as ever, fingers idly tapping against the side of his untouched coffee.

Soap, restless and impatient, flipped the remote between his fingers, bouncing his knee like a man desperate for something to do.

Gaz and Roach were deep in yet another football debate, Alejandro occasionally interjecting with smug commentary, Rodolfo sitting nearby, listening but staying out of it.

Kamarov flicked his knife between his fingers, absentminded but never careless, while Krueger and Nikto sat with sharp, calculated awareness, always watching.

Farah was half-engaged in a report, flicking through pages while tuning in and out of the room’s conversations.

Alex sat back, flipping through a magazine, muttering something under his breath about how half the articles were nonsense.

Nikolai and Laswell talked quietly in the corner, murmuring about supply chains and past deployment strategies.

Soap huffed suddenly, rolling his shoulders, flipping the remote once before clicking the television on.

"Right," he muttered, "let’s see what kind of nonsense we’re dealing with today."

The news flickered to life.

At first? Nothing special.

Politics, economy talk, a minor earthquake somewhere.

Then—the screen changed.

Soap paused, eyes narrowing. "Wait—what?"

Gaz turned toward the screen. "What is it?"

Soap grabbed the remote, turned up the volume.

"Breaking news from Mount Everest—"

"Following a minor earthquake, a rockslide has begun descending from the North Ridge. But what has stunned experts is what’s happening at the front of the rockfall—"

The drone footage flashed onto the screen.

And every single person in the room sat forward.

A rockslide, massive and ruthless, boulders tumbling, snow exploding in chaotic bursts, the earth shifting violently beneath itself.

And at the very front—a woman and three enormous dogs, balancing on shifting stone, walking backward across the debris, her movements unnervingly precise, her grip firm on the leashes, adjusting each step perfectly to stay on the moving rock.

Ghost stiffened.

Soap choked. "Bloody hell—what?!"

Gaz gawked. "That’s—no way—"

Roach murmured, "You’re kidding."

Alejandro let out a low whistle.

Rodolfo froze, stunned.

Kamarov muttered something in Russian—something close to, "Insane."

Krueger narrowed his eyes.

Nikto huffed, shaking his head. "Impossible."

Farah frowned. "She knows exactly what she’s doing."

Laswell crossed her arms. "She isn’t panicking—she’s adapting."

Nikolai narrowed his eyes. "That is not fear."

Alex gestured at the screen. "They're zooming in—watch her face."

The reporters filled the silence, their voices clashing over the footage.

The serious woman, clear and professional:

"What we are witnessing right now is unprecedented. No survival expert, no climber has ever been recorded navigating a rockslide in real-time like this—"

The cheeky male reporter, half-laughing, half-baffled:

"She’s walking like this is normal! Like she does this every Sunday! You ever see someone casually navigate a collapsing mountain? ‘Cause I sure haven’t—"

The skeptical older anchor, deadpan:

"No one trains for this. I don’t care who you are. You don’t just do this."

The drone zoomed in, clearing the resolution.

And Ghost dragged a hand down his face.

Not in shock.

Not in disbelief.

Just exasperation.

Silence settled over the room as Ghost mutters in disbelief.

"That's my bloody wife—"