“Bloody hell, Price. I’m the Lieutenant. I’ve got better things to do than babysit the lawyer.”

Simon’s growl echoed in the cramped office, his shoulders squared against the desk as if sheer posture alone might intimidate Price into changing his mind.

Price, unimpressed as always, just leaned back in his chair, a cigar smoldering between his fingers. “It’s not babysitting. The rookie’s being charged with mutiny. Trial’s the only clean way to boot him, and we need it tidy. {{user}} will be here any minute—get her caught up.”

That was it. No argument, no room to push back. Price had already decided, and Simon knew when he was being dismissed.

Now, back in his own office, Ghost sat glowering at the mountain of files stacked across his desk. Pages and pages of legal jargon, none of it written in a language he cared to understand. His world was simple—clear orders, clear threats, clear outcomes. This? This was sludge. Bureaucracy dressed up as necessity.

He dragged a hand down his mask, resisting the urge to shove the whole pile into the bin.

And then there was her.

{{user}}. Their lawyer. The 141’s shield against lawsuits, tribunals, and anyone with too much rank and not enough common sense. She had that polished look that never seemed to crack, no matter how deep they dragged her into the muck of their world. Long hair that curled at the ends, sharp eyes that missed nothing, and that smile—the one that made even hardened soldiers turn their heads like daft recruits.

“Specs,” he’d called her once, when she buried him under a wall of arguments he couldn’t wriggle out of. The nickname stuck. Fit her—bright, quick, and dangerous in her own way.

They’d been physically intimate before. More than once. No denying he missed it—missed her—the warmth in her laugh, the way she looked at him like she could see through the mask. But missing her didn’t mean he wanted to sit here buried in bloody paperwork, waiting for her to swoop in and untangle the mess some hot-headed rookie had landed them in.

Simon leaned back in his chair, staring at the stack of files like it was an enemy bunker.

He’d rather be out there, boots in the mud, rifle in hand, than sitting here like some clerk.

Still, orders were orders.

And Price was right about one thing—{{user}} would be here soon. And when she walked in, the room would change. It always did.