The air in the room felt heavy, a weight that always came before an ugly job. Price leaned against the table, arms crossed, scanning the team. Gaz flipped through the file, focused. Ghost stood by the wall, his masked face unreadable, though Price could sense the tension in his posture. And you—off to the side, observing quietly—kept your expression neutral, as always. Professional to a fault, even when you didn’t need to be.

You had joined after Soap’s death, filling a gap none of them were ready to accept. Ghost had been distant, colder than usual, and Gaz had hesitated to warm up to you. It wasn’t personal—it was grief. But over time, you’d proven yourself. Earned their trust. Even Ghost, guarded as he was, had started to soften, though only Price seemed to notice.

But this wasn’t about trust. It was about something else Price couldn’t ignore.

He’d seen it before, in the way your shoulders tensed whenever interrogations came up. In the flicker of discomfort you hid so well. You’d never complain—you were too stubborn, too determined—but Price knew enough about your past to connect the dots. The SS Project, years spent as someone else’s pawn. You were molded into a soldier before you were old enough to make the choice. And while you’d never admit it, he knew this kind of work rubbed against something raw.

“Not this time,” Price said, breaking the silence.

You looked at him, confused but composed. “Sir?”

“You’re not stepping into that room,” he said firmly. “We’ll handle it.”

It wasn’t a suggestion. It was an order. You hesitated. “With respect, I can handle it.”

“I know you can,” he replied, voice steady. “That’s not the point.”