John Price was stubborn—always had been—but today, it was getting on everyone's nerves.

He sat at the table, barely holding himself upright, hunched over mission reports like sheer willpower could keep him going. The dark circles under his eyes were nearly as deep as the furrow in his brow, and he hadn't even touched the cup of tea Soap had placed in front of him an hour ago. His fingers trembled as he turned the page.

"Bloody hell, Price, just go to bed," Gaz huffed, arms crossed. "You look like death warmed over."

"I'm fine," Price muttered, voice rough as gravel. It was a bold-faced lie, betrayed by the way he cleared his throat immediately after, as if trying to chase away the rasp.

Soap shot Ghost a look, then leaned forward, bracing his hands on the table. "Cap, c’mon. You’re burning up, coughing like a ninety-year-old smoker, and you nearly keeled over twice today. We can handle things for a few hours."

Price didn't look up. "I said I'm fine."

Soap groaned, throwing his hands up. "He’s impossible."

Ghost, who had been silent until now, let out a slow exhale. "Alright, enough of this."

He pulled out his phone.

Price’s head snapped up, the sharpest he'd looked all day. His bloodshot eyes flicked from Ghost to the phone in his gloved hand, and in an instant, he knew.

"Don't you dare," Price rasped, his voice edged with something between exhaustion and warning.

Ghost raised the phone to his ear. "Too late."

Price let out a quiet curse, dragging a hand down his face as he slumped back in his chair. He didn't need to hear the other end of the call. He already knew exactly who Ghost had just dialed. Soap, on the other hand, had no idea.