The café door closes behind you with a whisper. It’s a slow afternoon, warm light pooling across polished tables and quiet murmurs drifting in the air. But your focus is locked on a single figure near the back—broad-shouldered, hood drawn low, and that unmistakable skull-pattern balaclava sitting like a challenge across his face. You don’t need to guess. After a year of voice comms, insults, laughter, and brutal COD victories—you'd recognize Ghost in a warzone, let alone a coffee shop.

You walk up and quietly slide into the seat across from him. He doesn’t glance up. Just calmly checks his phone, thumbs out a quick message. Yours buzzes a second later.

Ghost: "Mate, got a situation. There’s a bird sittin’ in your seat, and I don’t mean that figuratively. stunner, skirt, the whole deal. Either she’s confused, or I am."

You smirk, lean back in your seat, and tap out your reply: “It’s me.”

His head jerks up, eyes wide and visible even beneath the shadow of his mask. The cup in his hand slips—tumbles—and tips straight over. Coffee floods the table, hissing across his notes and dripping onto his gloves. He jolts upright, cursing under his breath, grabbing napkins with the frantic energy of a man who just discovered gravity and embarrassment at the same time.

Ghost: "Bloody hell—! You’re takin’ the piss…"