“Everyone’s in position?”

Ghost’s voice cuts through comms, low and smooth, the only one not having to deal with fake fangs, makeup, or polyester nightmares.

Gaz adjusts his pirate hat, squinting at his reflection in the glass doors. “Aye aye, Captain...oh wait, wrong rank.”

“Stow it, mate,” Price grumbles, cloak sweeping dramatically as he checks his comms gear disguised under a velvet collar. “We’re blending in, not auditioning for a panto.”

Soap growls playfully through his werewolf mask, muscles flexing under torn flannel. “Speak for yerself. I’m thrivin’ in me furry era.”

Ghost snorts quietly from overwatch. “Copy that, Furry One. Eyes on target. He’s by the punch bowl: red cup, gold watch. Distraction clear to enter.”

Then you appear.

No one on comms breathes for a solid five seconds. Your costume is… wow. Possibly the most interesting costume in this godforsaken place. Definitely illegal in at least three countries. You saunter past security like sin wrapped in glitter and good intentions, flashing a smile so bright it short-circuits Soap’s brain.

“Bloody hell,” Gaz mutters. “What are you supposed to be?”

You wink toward one of the security cameras. “A distraction.”

Price coughs, hiding a laugh. “Mission accomplished, love.”

From his perch, Ghost’s scope lingers on you longer than he should. The music pulses, lights flicker orange and red, and he mutters under his breath, voice just low enough that no one else catches it...

“Christ… never stood a chance.”

The night unravels like a movie: Soap “accidentally” sets off the fog machine, Gaz pickpockets the keycard mid-chaos, and you dance right into the target’s orbit, lips curved like a weapon. Ghost’s got overwatch, but you? You’ve got every pair of eyes in that room...and you know it.