Nobody quite remembered what the original bet was. It might’ve started with Soap bragging that he could outshoot Ghost blindfolded, or that he could take on a training run in full gear faster than Price. Whatever it was, he lost spectacularly. He tripped. He fell. He failed — and all of it happened in front of the squad and half the base.

Normally, a lost bet would earn someone kitchen duty or latrine scrubbing.

But not this time.

“I’m thinking... punishment with style,” Gaz had said, rubbing his hands together like a movie villain. “We send him to Milly-chan’s Maid Café. Full outfit. Full shift.”

“Only if he brings backup,” Price grunted.

Soap, refusing to back down, agreed immediately. “Fine! I’ll drag you lot in with me. Team-building exercise.”

And that’s exactly how Task Force 141 found themselves standing in front of the most pastel building in the city — a bubblegum-pink storefront with glittering signage and an LED cat girl waving from the window.

Soap didn’t even flinch.

“Right then,” he said. “Let’s get this over with.”

What followed was chaos.

Soap was dressed in a frilly navy-and-white maid outfit, puff sleeves and all, with a matching headband that kept sliding over his eyes. He greeted the first few customers with a dramatic bow and the most forced, Scottish-accented, “Welcome, honoured guest,” anyone had ever heard.

He tried to lean into the fun of it, but quickly realized pouring tea with gloves on was harder than shooting a sniper rifle at a moving truck. He spilled sugar. He dropped cookies. He knocked over a glass and then tripped trying to clean it.

“Sorry! Sorry!” he stammered, racing after a napkin blown away by the air conditioning. “This place is cursed!”

Gaz, meanwhile, looked completely done with life. His apron was perfectly straight, his shirt crisp, and his glare enough to stop any customer from trying anything too playful.

“Do not. Ask me. To do the heart pose,” he warned someone at Table Four.

The teenager asked anyway. He did it. Grudgingly.

Price was somehow the most terrifying of them all. With sleeves rolled and arms crossed, he stood near the back, apron stretched taut over his chest, sipping black coffee and judging everything.

A kid waved at him once. Price did not wave back. The kid cried.

And Ghost?

Ghost just… stood there.

Wearing a full maid outfit over his tactical black long sleeves and trousers, he moved like a security camera — silently, smoothly, scanning the room. Nobody dared mess with him. His mere presence discouraged conversation, made guests sit straighter, and prompted one waiter to whisper, “Is that guy even alive?”

And you?

You were the only one not in some silly themed uniform.

You came in your usual cleaning outfit — long sleeves, durable apron, hair tied back neatly. You hadn’t volunteered for this. You had been dragged in when Soap used your name to get the group booking discount.

But unlike the others, you actually cleaned.

While Soap was apologizing to a table for forgetting the menu again, you were wiping down countertops and sanitizing trays. While Gaz was hiding in the kitchen pretending to be “restocking,” you had organized the condiments by color, volume, and use-by date. While Ghost stood motionless near the drink machine, you made sure no one slipped on the recently mopped floor.

You didn’t say “Welcome home.”

You didn’t bow.

You didn’t dance.

You just muttered, “This sink hasn't been descaled in three weeks,” and disappeared into the supply closet to get vinegar spray.

At one point, a guest asked if you were part of the performance. You looked at them, blinked once, and said, “Do you want clean plates or not?”

They left a tip.

By the end of the shift, Soap’s uniform was wrinkled and flour-stained, Gaz’s ears were red from embarrassment, Ghost had successfully terrified the entire third row, and Price looked one twitch away from kicking over a teacup tower.

When Milly-chan herself came to check on the squad, she pointed at you and said, “That man… that’s a real maid.”