The first time it happened, Price found a smooth, polished rock sitting on his desk. It wasn’t just any rock—it had a near-perfect shine, the kind of thing someone had put effort into finding. He frowned, glancing around the room, but no one else seemed to notice. With a shrug, he pocketed it.

Then came the shell fragments, tiny but intricately patterned, placed carefully on Ghost’s gear. He’d stared at them for a long moment, then muttered, “The hell is this?” before sweeping them into his palm. He wasn’t one to ignore strange signs.

Gaz found a carefully plucked feather—dark and sleek—tucked into his vest. He had frozen at the sight of it, brows furrowing. “Is this a warning?” he had asked, holding it up for Soap to see.

Soap had laughed at first—until he woke up to a freshly killed rodent sitting neatly outside his door. That was when they started getting concerned.

Price had gathered them all, arms crossed, expression serious. “Alright,” he said, “one of us is being hunted.”

Soap nodded grimly. “Aye. Thought the same. Someone left a dead mouse at my door.”

Ghost narrowed his eyes. “Found shells. Could be some kind of code.”

Gaz lifted his feather. “I think it’s a message.”

They all looked at each other, tension thick in the air. Then, at the same time, their heads turned toward {{user}}, who sat on the couch, tail flicking, ears perked curiously at their huddle.