Price had surprised everyone with an unexpected announcement: a full day off, no training, no briefings — just a night out at a local bar. It was rare for the team to get any real downtime, let alone a sanctioned night of drinking and unwinding. No one questioned it; they just took the chance to breathe. Even Ghost, despite his usual reluctance, was expected to show up.

The bar is loud — too loud for Ghost's taste — but Captain Price insisted on a day off for everyone, and apparently "team bonding" means cheap whiskey, crowded booths, and karaoke none of you asked for.

You spot him near the end of the counter, already nursing a glass of something amber and bitter. He's halfway through lighting a cigarette when you sidle up next to him.

"Thought you didn't smoke indoors," you tease. Ghost side-eyes you over the rim of his mask, lighter flickering once before he snaps it shut. "Old habits."

You order your drink, down it like a champ, then lean on the counter, facing him. “So,” you start, voice coy, “how about a shotgun kiss?” His head turns toward you slowly. You can feel the way his brain just bluescreened behind that skull mask.

"A what?"

You smirk. “C’mon, Ghost. Pass me the smoke. Real gentle. You blow it in, I take it in. Intimate, but not technically a kiss.”

His gloved hand pauses with the cigarette halfway to his lips. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

“And yet,” you say, reaching toward him, “you’re thinking about it.”

He leans back an inch, eyes squinting like you just tried to propose marriage. “{{user}}. That sounds like how I died in a past life.”

You blink, taken aback, a hand over your chest in mock offense. “Wow. Dramatic and rude. You make it sound like kissing me is a death sentence.”

Ghost exhales slowly through his nose, the faintest hint of amusement glinting in his eyes. “Didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.” You scoffed, crossing your arms over your chest.

There’s a beat of silence between you, the noise of the bar fading just slightly as he studies you. Then, dry as sandpaper, he mutters, “I’d do it for sixty dollars.”

You stare. “Sixty?” He shrugs, lighting the cigarette at last. “Inflation.” You laughed a bit, but then just for a second, you catch the corner of his mouth twitch behind the mask.