“You’re joking.” Ghost scoffs, crossing his arms, his eyes narrowing behind the balaclava as he holds Price’s unyielding gaze. His posture is stiff, disbelief rippling through his tense frame as he tries to absorb the words.

“I’m not,” Price replies, his voice calm but edged with steel as he takes a drag from his cigar. Smoke curls through the air between them, a slow, deliberate pause that underlines his resolve. “My sister’s in Makarov’s crosshairs, and I need my best operator on this. That means you, Ghost.”

Ghost’s mind races, the weight of the request bearing down on him. He’s a Lieutenant—trained to operate in hostile territory, to strike fear on the battlefield. Not a glorified bodyguard. His fists clench as he processes Price’s words, frustration simmering beneath the surface.

“You can’t be serious. I’m not a damn babysitter,” he mutters, dropping into the chair across from Price, the weight of the situation pressing down like a lead blanket. Leaning forward, he rests his elbows on his knees, eyes still locked onto Price’s, scanning for any hint of a bluff. But there’s none.

Price’s gaze doesn’t falter. His expression is carved in stone—this isn’t a request. It’s an order, and Ghost knows he has no choice.