The bar was dim, quiet in the way only a small dive could be at the end of a long day, with a few regulars scattered around and the low hum of the jukebox barely filling the background. Ghost sat at the table, arms crossed, watching Soap and {{user}} as they doubled over in giggles, their faces flushed. Ghost's brow furrowed behind his balaclava, his gaze drifting between their drinks and their hysterics.

"How much did you two even have?" he muttered, raising an eyebrow.

Soap wiped a tear from his eye, managing to compose himself just enough to clink his glass against {{user}}'s before breaking into laughter again. Through the distorted lenses of their full whiskey glasses, Ghost’s face looked bulbous, stretched, and hilariously squashed in ways they couldn’t have imagined.

Soap, barely able to get the words out, whispered to {{user}}, "Bet Ghost still thinks it's the whiskey… if only he could see his own reflection right now."

Ghost squinted, growing even more suspicious. "Care to let me in on the joke, or is it just 'pick on Ghost' day?"