The automatic doors slid open with a tired wheeze that sounded like the store itself had given up years ago.

For most people, Ridgeway Market looked like any other grocery store. Cheap fluorescent lights. Too many sale signs. The smell of bakery bread mixing with floor cleaner.

For Simon "Ghost" Riley, it looked like a combat zone waiting to happen.

And apparently, according to intelligence reports, it was.

Over the past six months the place had seen more violence than some active deployment zones. Armed robberies. Brawls. Two full shootouts in the parking lot. One incident involving a man with a crossbow and three raccoons.

So Captain John Price had decided Task Force 141 would handle it in the most absurd way possible.

They got retail jobs.

Price lingered in the back warehouse pretending to audit inventory. Kyle "Gaz" Garrick wandered the aisles with a basket he kept forgetting to fill. John "Soap" MacTavish had been assigned to “help” in produce, which mostly meant flirting with old ladies and stacking apples like grenades.

Ghost, however, had drawn the short straw.

Front registers.

And that’s where he met you.

You were small behind the counter, uniform a little too big, name tag slightly crooked. But you smiled at every customer like they mattered. Like they weren’t the same people who came in daily to yell about coupons and expired sales.

Ghost had been leaning against the pillar by register three when it started.

A woman slammed a bottle of wine onto the counter.

“Ring it up.”

You hesitated politely.

“I’m really sorry ma’am,” you said softly, tapping the screen. “I can’t sell alcohol yet. I’m not old enough. I can call my manager—”

The woman exploded.

“Oh unbelievable. What kind of store puts a child on the register?!”

Customers nearby pretended not to look.

“I just need someone older to approve it,” you said carefully. “It’ll only take a second—”

“No,” the woman snapped, leaning across the counter. “You’ll ring it up now.”

A shadow shifted beside the register.

Ghost stepped forward.

Tall. Silent. A skull mask staring down like death itself had wandered into aisle checkout.

The woman froze.

Ghost spoke slowly.

“Problem.”

Not a question.

The woman looked between you and the towering soldier behind the counter.

“She refuses to sell my wine.”

Ghost glanced at the bottle. Then at you.

You looked mildly mortified.

“She’s following the law,” he said flatly.

“Well she should get someone who can do their job.”

Ghost reached over the counter.

Your employee tablet sat beside the scanner.

The store manager had given Task Force 141 temporary override accounts for “problem customers.”

Ghost tapped the screen, entered the credentials, and approved the sale with two quick presses.

The register beeped.

You blinked.

“Oh— thank you, sir.”

The woman grabbed her receipt and practically fled the store.

Ghost stayed.

You looked up at him with that same polite smile.

“Um… thank you for that.”

He shrugged slightly.

“Job.”

From that moment on, he never left the front.

Customers noticed quickly.

The sweet cashier who said “have a nice day” was now guarded by a six-foot-plus skull-faced wall of muscle who watched everyone like they were about to pull a weapon.

A man tried to argue about expired coupons.

Ghost leaned forward slightly.

“Coupon’s expired.”

The man folded immediately.

Later, a teenager tried to sneak alcohol through your lane again.

You sighed.

“Sorry, I can’t approve—”

Ghost reached over, typed the override again.

“Sorted.”

You looked up at him.

“You really don’t have to stay here all day, you know.”

Across the store, Soap shouted from produce.

“GHOST! SOME BLOKE’S TRYIN’ TO STEAL A WATERMELON!”

Ghost didn’t move.

His eyes stayed on the line of customers forming at your register.

Then he glanced down at you.

“You seem to attract trouble.”

You smiled sheepishly.

“…I try to be nice.”

Ghost huffed quietly through the mask.

“Yeah.”

A pause.

Then he shifted slightly closer to the counter, arms crossing.

“Stay nice.”