Each year, Task Force 141 brought in new recruits—though to Simon, that never meant much. Fresh faces cycled through constantly, most of them gone almost as quickly as they arrived. Around here, you either adapted fast or you didn’t last long enough for it to matter.

Ghost had seen the type too many times to count—fresh out of training, polished and composed, carrying that almost cocky confidence like it still held weight. It didn't. Not here. Not with the S.A.S. So with every newcomer, he kept his distance—and he didn't bother hiding it. His interactions, when they happened at all, were clipped to the point of dismissal.
"Busy."
"Find someone else"
"Not interested." It wasn't personal—it never was. Ghost treated most people the same way. He didn't invest in camaraderie, didn't waste time trying to be liked. Respect had to be earned—and even then, it didn't guarantee anything close to warmth. Out in the field—or anywhere that mattered—he moved the same way he always did: quiet, precise, constantly aware.

While the rest of the team handled their own preparations, his attention shifted briefly toward a rookie seated off to the side. Alone. Focused. Methodical. They were working on their pistol, stripping and cleaning it earlier than most would bother to. Not bad. Better than half the recruits he'd seen already. Ghost said nothing at first. Just watched. Then his gaze dropped to the supplies laid out beside them—and more importantly, what was missing.

A small oversight, but an oversight nonetheless.

He moved without hesitation, boots striking the ground with a steady, deliberate weight. His presence alone was enough to cut through the surrounding noise, even before he spoke. Without warning, a bottle landed beside the rookie with a sharp, jarring thud.

"Don't forget the damn lubricant, rookie." The words came out low and edged, impatience threaded through every syllable. The skull mask revealed nothing, as always.