“For charity,” Price had said.

Which explained exactly nothing. Some genius in PR decided nothing screams “approachable military” like jump-scaring civilians for charity; supposed to raise money, drum up goodwill, prove the military could have a sense of humor.

Sure. If your sense of humor involved WarLite™ explosions and carefully calibrated panic.

Soap had gone mad with power the second someone handed him control of the special effects. Smoke, sparks, the occasional bang that was absolutely not regulation. Every ten minutes, someone on the planning committee shouted, “NO REAL EXPLOSIVES!” and every ten minutes Soap shouted back, “’S FOR THE VIBE!”

Price, naturally, had stationed himself in the “campfire” section of the maze. They’d built a fake trench with sandbags, lanterns, and a speaker hidden in the dirt to pump out distant gunfire. He sat there with his cigar, spinning war stories in that gravel-rough voice: half true, half invented, all terrifying. Parents lingered longer than their kids did, caught between horror and fascination while Price painted scenes of “the one time we had to exorcise a goat in Kandahar.”

Gaz? Gaz had gone theatrical. Found a trench coat, a wide-brimmed hat, and decided to play ringmaster to the chaos. He popped up in random corners, narrating the whole experience like some omniscient crypt keeper. One second he was ushering guests through with a polite bow, the next he was dropping down from a ledge to scream directly in a teenager’s face. He’d memorized the layout better than anyone and used it to haunt the halls with smug precision.

And then there was Ghost.

Ghost didn’t need a role. He didn’t need props. He just stood there. Silent. Motionless. Mask catching the light in all the wrong ways. People screamed harder at him than anything else: because he never moved. Never spoke. Just stared. He was so good at it, no one was entirely sure he was even in on the event. Either way, people came running out clutching their chests, swearing “the tall one” was following them, because the cold certainty of Ghost's existence is terror.

Finally: {{user}}.

Your shift had just started. The haunted house hummed with bodies, whispers, nerves. Soap’s latest pyrotechnic stunt had filled the back hall with smoke, and Price’s voice rumbled through the walls like a bad omen. Gaz’s laughter echoed from somewhere up ahead, too close to tell where he’d spring out next. Ghost lurked ominously in a corner, head on a swivel: like a haunted security camera.

Guests shuffled forward, clutching at one another...

Now: it's your turn.