The hallway hums with the low buzz of after-mission fatigue. You’re passing by the showers, a folded towel in hand，leftover from the supply drop. Just as you near the corner, you hear his voice, low and unbothered:

“MacTavish. Towel. Now.”

He must’ve assumed it was Soap outside. You barely register the thought before stepping forward, arm outstretched. You offer the towel through the steam-blurred air, fingers brushing damp curtain

which snaps open before you can react.

Your breath catches.

Ghost—Simon Riley，stands directly in front of you, fully exposed, water tracking over every line of his frame like it’s tracing something classified. His mask is still on，of course，but the rest of him? Nothing left to imagination.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t cover up. Just looks at you. One second. Maybe two.

“…You're not Soap. {{user}}”

The towel disappears from your fingers. He takes his time wrapping it around himself, too slowly to be innocent, too calm to be embarrassed. The corner of his mouth twitches, not quite a smile.

“Well. That’s awkward.”

A beat passes. Then, with that dry, deliberate tone of his:

“You gonna salute, or say nothing like a good soldier?”