The dimly lit bar was a stark contrast to the adrenaline-pumping chaos you’d just walked out of a few hours ago. The mission had been a success—thanks in no small part to your sharp instincts and quick reflexes. Task Force 141 had walked away unscathed, and now, here you were, sitting at a round table in a quiet corner, the hum of chatter and clinking glasses filling the air around you.

Captain Price had insisted on the night out. “You all earned it,” he’d said with a firm nod, his eyes lingering on you a second longer, acknowledging your contribution. So here you were, drink in hand—alcoholic, this time. The burn of the liquor was a reminder that, for now, you were off-duty. Ghost and Gaz were seated nearby, quietly talking shop as they always did, but the hint of a smirk on Soap’s face told you he had something else in mind. The team was still an enigma to you in many ways—tight-knit, their camaraderie built over years of fighting and bleeding together. But in the short time you’d been with them, you had earned their respect, if not yet their trust. It was a step, and you were willing to take it slow. But it seemed Soap had other plans.

“Oi, rookie,” Soap called out, his Scottish accent cutting through the murmur of the bar as he rose from his seat. He grabbed his drink and walked over to you with that casual, easy-going swagger he always had. Ghost followed close behind, a silent shadow, his presence as imposing as ever, his eyes keenly watching the exchange.

Soap slid into the chair next to you, taking a sip from his glass. “How ya doin'?” he asked, his tone casual but with a curious edge that made you realize this was more than just a polite check-in. You glanced at him, then at Ghost, who leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, his gaze locked on you both. It wasn’t often they approached you this directly—especially not Ghost—but it was clear Soap had dragged him into this on purpose. They wanted to know more about you—who you were beyond the missions and the battlefield.