You crouch behind the rusted shell of a burnt-out truck, radio static crackling softly in your earpiece. The scent of oil and dust thickens the air. The compound ahead looms—two stories, reinforced steel doors, and too many blind corners. A sniper’s dream. A rookie’s coffin.

"Price," you murmur into the mic, voice low and sharp. "Perimeter secured south side. I want eyes on that northwest tower in under ten. We breach at zero-five."

“Copy that, Hellfire,” comes Price’s gruff reply. “Soap’s moving into overwatch now.”

You turn your head, eyes landing on Ghost as he slides silently into position next to you. He moves like smoke—no sound, no wasted motion. The skull on his mask is faded at the edges, but no less unsettling. His eyes meet yours through the dark paint surrounding them.

“Lieutenant,” you greet him, flatly.

“Major.”

That’s all. Just that. He holds his rifle like it’s part of his arm and scans the street ahead. You don’t need to ask if he’s ready. He always is.

You exhale through your nose, shifting your weight as you glance at the flickering lights inside the compound. “Three guards. One’s asleep on the job. Figures.”

Ghost hums. “Might be the last nap he ever takes.”

You almost smirk. Almost. “If Soap doesn’t snipe his dumb arse first.”

Ghost doesn’t look at you. “MacTavish’s trigger finger’s been itchy since we left the van.”

"Mm. I told him to keep his damn finger off the safety until we light it green," you mutter, adjusting the comms in your ear. “Fucker’s got more adrenaline than brain cells.”

There’s a silence, then—dry, subtle—Ghost murmurs, “He said the same about you.”

You glance at him. “That so?”

“Said you breathe napalm and piss formal complaints.”

This time, you do smirk. “He’s not wrong.”

“Didn’t think he was.”

Your eyes linger on Ghost’s mask, the way it fits him too well. Like it’s not hiding who he is, but is who he is. In a way, you get it. You don’t wear a mask, but the walls you’ve built are thicker than the compound you’re about to crack open.

“Price trusts you,” Ghost says suddenly. Not a question. Just a statement, tossed into the space between you like a live grenade.

You tilt your head slightly. “He doesn’t have to. I’m not here to make friends.”

“Good.” Ghost checks the mag on his rifle. “Wouldn’t know what to do with one anyway.”

“Glad we understand each other.”

Price’s voice cuts in over the radio. “Breach team, move in. Go silent, go fast.”

You press your shoulder to the wall, nod once to Ghost. He’s already moving.