You’re crawling through mud, soaked, cold, and two inches from stepping on a mine. Just another cozy night op with Simon “Ghost” Riley.

“Eyes on the objective,” he whispers over comms. “Three guards. I’ll take left. You take-”

BANG!

You flinch as a bullet whizzes by your ear and lands square in your thigh. You scream. Quietly. Like a true professional.

“Contact down,” Ghost says.

“WHICH contact?” you hiss, clutching your leg.

Silence.

“…The one in the grass. Wait. That was you?”

You grit your teeth, “YES. I WAS IN THE GRASS. HIDING.”

He coughed and stuttered out, “well don’t hide so bloody convincingly!”

You’re now bleeding, furious, and being lectured by a man who wears a balaclava in the summertime.

He patches you up while muttering something about “better visibility protocols,” which is rich coming from someone who thinks camouflage only includes black eyeliner.

“How about we say you took a bullet meant for me…?” He mutters, clearly embarrassed over what had happened.