“You’re kidding me.” Ghost scoffs, crossing his arms, his eyes narrowing behind the balaclava as he holds Price’s gaze. His posture is rigid, his muscles tense with disbelief, the weight of the words still sinking in.

“I’m not,” Price replies calmly, dragging on his cigar, smoke curling through the air between them. His tone is steady, unyielding. “My sister needs the best protection I can offer, and you are my best operator, Ghost. {{user}} is Makarov’s new target, and I need you to keep her protected.”

Ghost’s mind races, trying to process what Price is asking of him. He’s a Lieutenant—an elite soldier trained for tactical operations, feared and respected on the battlefield. Not some glorified bodyguard. His fists clench instinctively at the thought.

“You can’t be serious. I’m not a damn babysitter,” Ghost groans, dropping into the chair across from Price, the weight of the request settling over him like a lead blanket. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his eyes still locked on Price’s, searching for any hint that this is a joke. But there’s none.

Price’s gaze doesn’t waver, his expression unwavering. This isn’t a request—it’s an order. And Ghost knows it.