The tension between you two could light up a battlefield.

Every day on base felt like another round in an unspoken war. Ghost wasn’t just a Lieutenant, he was the Lieutenant. Efficient, ruthless, quiet. You weren’t scared of him. You challenged him.

He hated it.

You were faster. Sharper. Louder.

If he ended a drill in ten minutes, you’d do it in five. He didn’t flinch when shooting a target in the chest? You’d walk up and decapitate the dummy with your combat knife like it owed you money.

The competition was relentless.

One morning, Soap timed him clearing a breach scenario : 9 minutes, 47 seconds. Not even five minutes later, you stormed into the simulation and cleared it in 9:32. Without backup.

“You keep watching my times, soldier?” Ghost’s voice had that edge of dry amusement.

You didn’t look at him. Just wiped the sweat off your brow, offering a quick: "Just waiting for you to give me a real challenge.”

Gaz coughed back a laugh. Soap looked way too entertained. Ghost said nothing, but that mask couldn’t hide the way his eyes narrowed with something like…interest.

That was how it always went. Challenge. Retaliation. Repeat.

One night during combat drills, it got ugly. Not in a bad way. But in the way tension simmers too long and boils over.

You were paired off. One-on-one. Close-quarters.

The fight started controlled: trikes, blocks, footwork. But something shifted when Ghost pinned you for the third time, hovering inches above you on the mats, his breath harsh, his grip locked tight on your wrists.

He didn’t get off. Didn’t speak. Just looked. Something dangerous glinted in his stare. You could hear the smirk dripping off of his words.

"Getting slow there, soldier."