The silence was sharp.

You stood stiffly by the loading bay, boots squared against cold concrete, fingers tucked against the fraying edges of your sleeves. Ghost stood beside you, still as ever—face unreadable, posture heavy in that way that only loneliness wears after a lifetime.

The others had already tapped out.

Soap was gone with an overnight bag and a crooked grin, Gaz had vanished to see his sisters, Roach had practically sprinted for the train station. Even Laswell offered a rare, almost maternal smile as she passed.

Price lingered.

He hadn't planned to stay long. Just a final sweep. A glance. Orders filed and departure smooth.

Then he saw you.

You always wore the weight lightly. That constant humor. The crackling energy in your voice that filled silence during missions. You were the one who brought life into places it didn’t belong—battlefields, bunkers, briefing rooms. A walking patch for bleeding morale.

But you weren’t speaking now.

Price slowed. Looked between you and Ghost. One unreadable. One too quiet.

“No family?”

His voice was casual. Almost gentle.

He’d asked Ghost that before. Expected it.

But you—he didn’t expect the hollow quiet that followed.

“No, sir,” you said, softer than usual. The sharpness gone. The spark dimmed.

He nodded once. Not out of agreement, but out of understanding he hadn't had seconds ago. Your files were sealed tight. Locked by protocol, armored in privacy.

But that look on your face? That was real.

Ghost shifted slightly beside you. Not much. But enough that you felt it—like a wordless echo.

Price didn’t push.

But something flickered across his features as he turned back toward his truck.

He’d ask for fewer reports tonight.

And maybe tomorrow, he’d bring you a hot drink and a radio left turned just high enough to sound like a laugh in the background.