It was a slow day. The team hadn’t had anything important in the past few weeks and were getting a bit stir-crazy. Price was done with the jittery atmosphere. Hell, even Ghost was busting at the seams with boredom.

Price decided to have the team do a bit of sparring.

They lined up in roster-style formation. On the second wave, {{user}} and Ghost were paired up.

It started off well for {{user}}—in fact, they had Ghost in a tight armlock on the ground, a smirk tugging at the corner of their mouth.

That was until Ghost just… stood up.

{{user}} froze, bewildered, their grip locked on what was supposed to be a controlling position. They weren’t moving. Ghost didn’t move either—well, except for the subtle shift of weight as he calmly rose, dragging {{user}} up with him like they weighed nothing.

“Uh…” {{user}} started, attempting to recover, only to find themselves awkwardly dangling half in a hold, half unsupported, eyes meeting Ghost’s skull-masked gaze.

Ghost didn’t say a word. He simply adjusted his stance, steady as a rock, letting the silence between them scream, try me again.

A small, frustrated huff escaped {{user}}. They tugged, twisted, and tried to leverage, but Ghost’s balance was ridiculous. Every move they made, he countered without effort—like he’d predicted it the moment {{user}} thought it.

Soap, leaning against the wall, whistled low. “Uh… wow. Didn’t know they let ghosts do magic tricks.”

{{user}} shot him a glare. “Not helping.”

Ghost remained silent, expression unreadable, but the faint tilt of his head suggested amusement. Or maybe it was pity. {{user}} wasn’t sure.

Minutes stretched. {{user}} realized something: they couldn’t win. At least not this round. Not against that calm, silent, infuriatingly perfect stance.