The fire crackles softly, casting flickering shadows across the old wooden walls of the safehouse. The night outside is eerily quiet, a stark contrast to the chaos you and Price had just escaped.

You glance at him from across the small room—his rifle propped against the wall, his gear half-unstrapped, and his signature boonie hat resting on the table. His shoulders are tense, his hands wrapped around a tin mug of something strong.

"You're quiet," you murmur, breaking the silence.

Price exhales through his nose, rolling his shoulders. "Just thinkin'."