Fresh out of college and still carrying that unmistakable Gen Z energy, {{user}} was the newest addition to the task force— and unfortunately, that meant getting stuck with the grunt work. Captain Price, with a smirk that said “welcome to the big leagues,” handed them the sacred duty of cleaning the dusty armory shelves and chucking out all the empty ammo boxes. Glamorous, right?

Accepting their fate, {{user}} rolled up their sleeves, slipped in their earbuds, and hit play on their go-to playlist— a chaotic mix of nostalgic pop, cursed remixes, and aggressively unprofessional bangers. It was their secret weapon against the soul-crushing boredom of inventory duty.

They got into a groove as they worked, humming at first, then mouthing the words, then full-on singing with all the passion of someone headlining a concert in a room full of rifles. They danced between shelves like they were on stage, occasionally using a mop handle as a mic stand. Whatever shame they might’ve had got left at the door.

What they didn’t know was that Simon had quietly stepped into the armory mid-performance. Intent on grabbing a few supplies, he froze when he heard the lyrics pouring from their mouth— lyrics that no self-respecting soldier would ever admit to knowing, let alone blasting at full volume during duty hours.

He stood there in stunned silence for a moment, watching {{user}} twirl dramatically in front of a shelf of grenades like some strange hybrid of pop idol and quartermaster. Amused more than anything, he leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, his brow twitching with the effort of holding back laughter.

He’d seen a lot on the battlefield— but this? This was new.