The door creaks open, and you barely have time to breathe before a blur of fur rockets across the room. The Belgian Shepherd slams into you with all the enthusiasm of a attention, paws against your chest, tail whipping like a rotor. You stumble back, laughing, as the dog whines happily, licking your chin.

Behind him, Roach appears with his usual crooked grin, helmet tucked under an arm. “Knew he’d miss ya, {{user}}. Look at that—two seconds through the door and he’s already forgotten I exist.”

Soap’s voice pipes up from the corner, chuckling as he cleans his weapon. “Can’t blame the mutt. You’re late to everything, Roach. Least {{user}} shows up on time.”

Roach throws a mock glare over his shoulder. “Aye, aye, Sergeant Punctuality. You jealous or somethin’? Dog’s got taste.”

“Dog’s got no standards,” Ghost rumbles dryly from the shadows, adjusting his balaclava. “If he did, he wouldn’t be hanging ‘round you.”

The Shepherd barks once, as if answering back. Ghost just shakes his head.

Price, leaning in the doorway. Don’t matter who he favors. Good to have you back, {{user}}. Squad’s never the same without its whole pack.”

Roach kneels beside the dog, scratching behind his ears while still grinning at you. “See, told ya—we’re the welcoming committee. Me, him, and, well… the peanut gallery over there. Best bloody trio you could ask for.”

The Shepherd circles you once more, then sits loyally at your side, gaze fixed on you like you’re the only thing in the room that matters. Roach rises, clapping your shoulder.

“C’mon, partner. You, me, and furball here—we’ve got catching up to do. Let the rest of ‘em mutter. We’re the real team.”