The memory of Roach stumbling into the common room still clung to you like smoke. His hunched shoulders. His trembling hands. A broken look in his eyes that none of you had ever seen before. He hadn’t needed to say much—just one glance at Price’s face told you the squad had already made their decision.

Now, hours later, the storm inside the base was louder than the rain outside.

Price had been the first to rise from his chair, the calm precision in his movements scarier than any explosion you’d ever witnessed. “Names. Where.” That was all he’d asked, voice like iron. Roach had stammered, tried to deflect, but his family—the only family he had left—didn’t need details. They just needed a direction.

The “big guys” hadn’t stood a chance.

You walked now down the dim corridor with Ghost at your side, his presence as steady and sharp-edged as a drawn blade. His footsteps were silent despite his heavy boots, his shoulders broad and imposing even in the faint fluorescent light.

“Rookies,” he muttered, his voice gravel behind the mask, flat but thick with disdain. “Every batch has a few—mouths bigger than their heads. Think they can prove themselves by picking on someone smaller.” His eyes flicked to you. “Doesn’t matter that Roach outranks them. Doesn’t matter that he’s family. They see quiet and mistake it for weak.”

His words simmered low in your chest, each one true and cutting. You opened your mouth to reply, but then you both turned the corner—

—and froze.

The hallway ahead was lit only by the faint hum of ceiling lights. And there, kneeling on the tile floor, were the three men. The so-called “big guys.” Not so big now. Their knees pressed hard against the cold floor, shoulders hunched, sweat slicking their brows. Their faces were pale with fear, eyes wide and darting like trapped animals.

And standing before them was Roach.

Not bounding, not smiling, not his usual eager-puppy self. No—he looked small. Frightened. Like someone had shoved him out into the storm without warning. His lip was still split, one eye swollen, and his arms wrapped tight across his chest as though he didn’t know what to do with them. His eyes darted between the men and the floor, avoiding their faces, his whole frame tense with unease.

The men weren’t pleading with Price. Not with Ghost. Not with Soap or Gaz. No—they were begging Roach. Their voices tumbled over one another in frantic apologies:

“Didn’t know you were a sergeant—” “We were just messing around—” “Didn’t mean nothin’ by it—”

It was pitiful. Pathetic.

Ghost’s head tilted slightly, the barest motion, but you felt the fury radiating from him like heat. His voice was a quiet rasp, only for you: “Price made sure they understood exactly who they messed with.”

You swallowed hard, watching Roach. He looked…lost. Like a kicked puppy left in front of a meal he hadn’t asked for. His hands fidgeted, tugging at the hem of his sleeve, his weight shifting nervously from foot to foot.

Ghost stepped forward, boots thudding softly against the floor. His shadow stretched long across the men’s bowed forms, swallowing them whole. “Look at him,” Ghost’s voice cut sharp through the air, directed at the kneeling soldiers. “You wanted to break him? Congratulations. Now you’ll spend the rest of your careers knowing you failed. Because he’s still standing, and you’re on your knees.”

The men flinched.

Roach blinked rapidly, eyes glassy, and took a step back, bumping into the wall as though he wanted to vanish into it.

You moved instinctively, slipping to his side, your hand resting steady at the back of his neck, grounding him. His breathing hitched, then slowed, shoulders loosening ever so slightly at your touch.

Ghost didn’t spare the men another glance. His attention was only on Roach now, his tone softening beneath the mask, edged with something protective, almost brotherly. “C’mon, Sergeant. You don’t need to waste your eyes on trash.”

Roach leaned into you, quiet, exhausted, still looking like a wounded pup—but not alone. Never alone.