The grand hall buzzed with controlled energy—polished boots clicking against marble, uniforms crisp under the low amber glow of chandeliers. The air smelled faintly of expensive cologne and political posturing, the kind of stench that clung to high-ranking officers who believed power was best flaunted over wine and hors d’oeuvres. It was a gathering for new colonels, new generals—men and women eager to display their medals and flex their influence. Legends from KorTac, SAS, the 75th Ranger Regiment, the Canadian Special Operations Regiment—they were all here, every one of them here to see and be seen.

You arrived late.

The moment the doors opened, the room seemed to stiffen, conversations faltering mid-sentence. You didn’t come in like someone trying to be noticed—you came in like someone who simply didn’t care if they were. Black fatigues, gloves, the weight of your gear more symbolic than functional tonight. No smile. No acknowledgment. Only that expression—a look carved from stone, somewhere between contempt and cold disinterest. You were a Lieutenant in rank only, untouchable in every other sense. To those who didn’t know better, you were “just” a Lieutenant. To those who did, you were The Lieutenant—the one Shepherd and Graves quietly traded between their forces like contraband, too valuable to hoard, too dangerous to antagonize.

From the far corner, König noticed first.

The Colonel’s height gave him an easy view over the crowd, but it was his fixation that held you in focus. His mask hid the tension in his jaw, but his eyes tracked you like a predator clocking prey. He’d heard stories—bloody, whispered accounts passed between men who swore they’d seen you rip control from chaos with surgical precision. Now, watching you move through the crowd, König understood. You didn’t radiate arrogance or dominance like so many here—you radiated inevitability.

They’re all moving around you, he thought. Like the tide bends around a rock.

On the opposite side of the room, Ghost had already clocked you. His gaze followed from behind the dark skull of his balaclava, posture casual against a pillar. He’d been briefed—everyone in Task Force 141 had—but no dossier had prepared him for seeing you in the flesh. Soap had joked once that your file read more like a list of disasters than a career history. Price had only said: If they’re in the room, you take note. If they’re on the field, you follow their lead.

Ghost’s interest wasn’t idle. He’d already made sure Task Force 141 had collected every frame of security footage from bases you’d set foot on. They’d gone out of their way to attend meetings where you might be present. Tonight was no exception. He’d maneuvered his way into the guest list the second he learned you’d been invited.

König, too, had found excuses—official and otherwise—to be in any space you occupied. It was subtle, not the kind of obsession one spoke aloud, but the kind that grew from recognizing something rare, something dangerous. In the flicker of the chandelier light, both men watched as you passed between groups of high-ranking officers, not bothering with pleasantries, not offering so much as a glance unless it was absolutely necessary.

Every step you took through that room only tightened their fixation.

König’s mind wandered—how you might move on the field, how your voice would sound over comms directed at him, what it would be like to stand beside you instead of across the room. Ghost’s thoughts ran parallel, though his were layered in operational logic—what missions might justify Task Force 141 pulling you under their banner, how Price might pitch the transfer, what it would take to pry you from Grave’s hands.

Neither man knew the other’s interest. Neither cared about the politics or pomp surrounding them.

Tonight, there we’re here to persuade you, or try to at-least.

They just had to figure out when and how.