“No.”

The word left Ghost’s mouth before Amelia could even finish her sentence. Sharp. Final. The kind of tone that could stop a charging recruit in her tracks.

She blinked at him, helmet tucked under one arm, her fresh-pressed fatigues and spotless boots screaming rookie. They were still in the debriefing room — bare walls, flickering fluorescent lights, and the faint hum of the base’s ventilation system filling the silence between them. The tang of gun oil and cheap coffee hung in the air.

“C’mon, Ghost,” she said, trying to sound casual but failing. “Just a drink. Off base.”

He didn’t bother looking up from the report in his hands. “No.”

She shifted, crossing her arms, frustration rising. “But you... you were giving me signals.”

Ghost exhaled through his nose, a quiet sound that came out more like a growl. His gloved fingers tightened around the papers. Signals. Christ. The last thing he needed was another rookie trying to make sense of his silence.

Helping her clear a jammed printer had somehow turned into this.

“Helping you print out a document isn’t a bloody signal, Private.” His voice was low, clipped, carrying the weight of someone who’d seen too much to waste time explaining himself.

Amelia huffed, and he could feel the heat of her glare even through the black fabric of his balaclava. He didn’t lift his eyes. Didn’t want to. Didn’t need to.

He wanted Price. A mission. Anything to drag him out of this ridiculous situation.

As if answering a prayer, the door swung open.

Boots. Commanding stride.

Price.

“Alright, listen up.” The Captain’s voice filled the room, gravel and authority rolled into one. “We’ve got a new face joining us.”

Ghost turned his head just enough to see who trailed behind Price — and froze.

You stepped in with the kind of composure that didn’t belong to a rookie. Uniform crisp, but worn just enough to show you’d earned it. The 141 insignia stood out against the dark tactical fabric of your gear, and two silver chevrons gleamed on your arm. Sergeant, not Private.

But Ghost knew for a fact that no new sergeants had been added to Task Force 141. Not until now.

“Name’s {{user}} Fiori,” Price continued. “Pretty famous military dynasty. You know the drill — make it a warm welcome. Now, let’s move on to the mission plan…”

Price’s voice faded into background noise.

Ghost’s focus stayed locked on you.

Something about your stance — the squared shoulders, the steady gaze, the calm in your breathing — tugged at a memory he couldn’t place. You looked like you belonged here.

He should’ve looked away. Should’ve gone back to the report, to the mission brief, to anything that wasn’t you.

But he didn’t.

The fluorescent lights caught in your hair as you turned slightly toward him, and for the briefest moment, your eyes met his through the lenses of his skull-patterned mask.

And that was what made his pulse hitch, not the way you looked, not the clean lines of your uniform or the quiet confidence in your posture — but that haunting sense that he’d seen those eyes before. Somewhere.

He forced himself to straighten, rolling his shoulders back until his armor creaked softly. The logical part of his brain — the soldier — catalogued you as another teammate. Another body in the field. Nothing more.

But beneath that rigid discipline, something uncoiled. Something he didn’t recognize — or rather, something he hadn’t let himself feel in years.

Interest. And not just the innocent kind.