You worked flat on your back beneath a battered MRAP, coveralls smeared with grease, a headlamp strapped over your forehead. The undercarriage loomed inches above your nose. You had one hand buried elbow-deep in the drivetrain, the other gripping a wrench that had seen better wars.

A pair of boots stopped beside the vehicle.

“If that’s you, Nikolai,” you called, voice echoing off the steel, “tell Price I need another hour. And better parts.”

A beat of silence.

Then a voice, low and measured, thickened by a deep Mancunian accent. “It’s not Nikolai.”

Your wrench paused mid-turn.

That’s when you slid yourself out from under the vehicle on a rolling creeper, blinking against the harsh lights. Wiping your hands, you stood, meeting his lidded brown eyes.

“Lieutenant,” you said with a respectful nod.

Ghost’s gaze swept over the half-disassembled vehicle. He was always hard to read, beneath the tough exterior plus the physical aspect of his balaclava. “Nikolai said you’re the reason this thing still runs.”