Bar – Near Base, 2100 Hours

The music was low, the lights soft, casting everything in a golden haze. Laughter echoed from all corners of the room, glasses clinking, boots tapping against worn floorboards. The mission was done. Everyone was alive. That was reason enough to celebrate.

She stood at the bar, mocktail in hand. Bright pink. Extra lime. Her go-to. Five years sober.

Miller sidled up beside her, wearing a too-easy smile.

“Bartender mixed this up just for you,” he said, sliding a drink her way. “Said it’s sweet, no booze.”

She glanced at the glass. “As long as it’s clean.”

“Wouldn’t mess with that,” he said, holding up both hands. “Promise.”

She took a sip. Slightly bitter, but not unpleasant. Probably just a different syrup. Ten minutes passed. Her laugh came easier, her body felt warm, light. Too light.

From across the room, Soap leaned toward Gaz. “She okay to you?”

Gaz frowned. “She never acts like that. Even with the sugar high.”

Ghost stood still, watching her carefully. “That’s not a mocktail.”

Price crossed the room, calm but purposeful. He gently took the drink from her hand and sniffed it. His face darkened immediately.

“This isn’t a mocktail.”

She blinked at him, unsteady. “I don’t… Miller said—no, I didn’t mean to…”

Ghost looked around. “Where is he?”

“Back corner,” Soap said coldly. “Laughing like he just won something.”

Price’s voice dropped. “Miller. Outside. Now.”

Miller raised his drink. “It was one drink. She’s being dramatic.”

Ghost stepped forward, voice cold. “She’s five years clean, you bastard.”

“I worked so hard…” she muttered, eyes wide, breath shallow.

“You still are,” Gaz said gently, steadying her arm. “This doesn’t undo anything.”

“You’re done,” Price snapped, turning to Miller. “Get out of my unit.”

“You can’t be serious—”

Soap grabbed him by the shoulder, shoving him toward the door. “Move. Before I break your jaw.”

The bar grew quiet as Miller was forced out. She stood in the silence, trembling.