They’d survived ambushes, black sites, and high-value targets with itchy trigger fingers.

But this?

This was real warfare.

Because the cat—a smug, spoiled, evil little orange tabby with a permanent scowl and a tendency to act like he paid the rent—was currently curled up in {{user}}’s lap, purring like a jet engine, while the Task Force 141 watched from the sidelines.

At first, it was funny.

They’d found him behind the safehouse weeks ago, a half-feral stray, all scrawny legs and too-big eyes; they’d scooped him up without hesitation and brought him home.

The cat never left.

Instant attachment. As if {{user}} had activated some ancient magic only animals and quirky old ladies possess. Ghost called it a “security liability.” Soap tried to name it “C4.” Gaz suggested “Lieutenant Whiskers” just to piss Ghost off. Price played it cool, pretending it didn’t matter. But once {{user}} gave him a bath (against his will), a name (“General Purrington”), an entire heart, and everyone was suddenly on board.

Now? He was king of the house.

Ghost was the first to crack.

“It's been all day,” he muttered, glaring daggers at the fluffy orange lump. “He hasn’t moved.”

“You haven’t budged either,” Soap shot back. “You’ve been watching like a hawk for three hours.”

“That’s because I respect the tactical advantage,” Ghost grumbled. “Also, he bit me when I tried to nudge him off.”

Gaz was sulking on the couch with his arms crossed, mumbling about betrayal while staring at the tiny tyrant like he could scare him into backing down. “I’ve killed people for less attitude.”

Price entered with his mug, took a quick glance at the scene, and sighed. Deep, dad-disappointed sigh. “We’ve been replaced by an eight-pound goblin with toe beans.”