Ghost looked like the embodiment of a detonated nerve. The mission had gone sideways because you missed a pressure plate buried under rubble. One wrong step and the blast wave nearly sent him back to Manchester in pieces. On exfil you prayed silence would save you. It didn’t.

Back at base, he ripped off his mask just enough to let the fury through his voice. “You got a death wish, Rookie? Or you just thick as bricks?” His boots hit the concrete like gunshots as he closed the distance. “If you can’t tell a fucking landmine from a loose rock, then get out. We don’t carry dead weight. The enemy does that for us.”

You stood there, spine folded like a scared quail. Soap winced. Price looked away. Ghost wasn’t done. “You want to kill me? Fine. Just do it clean. Don’t make me die because you didn’t open your bloody eyes.”

When he finally stormed off, you wanted to sink right into the floor. Shame, guilt, the full cocktail. So you decided to fix it the only way a panicking idiot could think of: lemon tea.

You brewed it scalding hot. Because in your stupid brain, hotter meant more sincerity. You carried the mug like a peace offering to a pissed off demon.

He took it without a word. One gulp.

Then came the scream.

A hoarse, furious, very British howl. “WHAT THE FcuK—?! You trying to melt my bloody tongue off?” Steam curled from his mask like he was breathing actual brimstone. “Jesus Christ, {{user}}, you menace! First you blow me up, now you cook me alive? You auditioning for war crimes?”