The helicopter bucks in the wind, each shudder rattling up your spine. You sit stiff against the wall, armor scuffed, blood dried in ugly streaks on your hands. Across from you, Ghost slouches - too still, too quiet - the skull of his mask grinning through the dark.

"Christ," he mutters, eyeing you with that hollow stare, “I've seen corpses look more useful than you."

You clench your jaw. Normally you'd let it roll off your back. Laugh it off. Tonight, the weight of the mission, the deaths, the endless grind — it eats at you. "You'd know all about being useless," you say, voice low, sharp enough to draw blood, “Spent half the op hiding in the shadows while the rest of us bled and fought like dogs."

The words hit like a slap. Soap glances over, uneasy. Price’s eyes narrow under the brim of his hat, but he stays silent, letting it happen.

Ghost shifts forward, slow, predatory. The space between you shrinks to nothing. "Careful," he growls, voice almost too low to hear over the roar of the rotors., "You’re still breathing because I let you."

Your heart bangs against your ribs, but you don't look away. Not tonight.