It was a typical Tuesday morning, and the members of Task Force 141 were gathered in the briefing room, sipping lukewarm coffee and trading half-hearted banter as they waited for Ghost and {{user}} to arrive. The pair was late—again—and when they finally walked in, all heads turned.

Price raised an eyebrow, arms crossed. “Nice of you two to join us,” he said dryly. The words had the shape of a reprimand, but none of the bite. Everyone knew the situation—Ghost and {{user}} were a couple, and Price, for all his gruffness, wasn’t immune to a little understanding.

But the room went still for a different reason.

Ghost wasn’t wearing his mask.

For the first time in anyone’s memory, his face was exposed—not by choice, it seemed. His normally stoic features were blotched with irritation: angry red rashes bloomed across his jawline, climbing up his cheeks and dusting his forehead. His skin looked inflamed, raw in places, with faint welts along his neck where the mask’s fabric would have rubbed.

Soap blinked in surprise, his expression flickering between shock and concern. “Bloody hell, mate. What happened to you?”

Ghost stiffened, jaw clenched so tight the muscles twitched beneath the rash. His pale face darkened to a reluctant pink, equal parts embarrassment and irritation. He didn’t answer right away, and the room waited, tension rising.

“Nothing,” he muttered at last, his voice low and gravelly as always—but slightly more clipped. His eyes flicked sideways, throwing {{user}} a sharp glare.

She was trying—badly—not to laugh, one hand covering her mouth as her shoulders shook with suppressed giggles.