The safe house wasn’t much—concrete walls, dim lighting, the faint scent of old coffee lingering in the air. After hours trudging through the snow, though, it might as well have been a five-star hotel.

Price, Gaz, and Soap stomped into the main room, shedding their gear with exhausted grunts. Gaz was halfway to collapsing onto the couch when he stopped dead in his tracks.

"Uh… where the hell did those come from?"

On the battered wooden table sat a plate of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. Steam still curled lazily from the tops, the chocolate glistening in the dim light.

Price frowned. "Ghost bake while we were gone?"

Soap snorted. "Aye, right. You think he’d make cookies and not threaten us for even lookin’ at ‘em?"

Gaz leaned in slightly, eyeing them with suspicion. "You think someone broke in?"

"And what, made us snacks?" Soap shot him a look before grabbing one. He barely hesitated before taking a bite.

The room went silent.

Gaz and Price watched as Soap stopped chewing, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, his eyes widened. He turned the half-eaten cookie in his hand like he was holding a piece of treasure.

"…Holy shit," he muttered.

Gaz blinked. "That good?"

Soap pointed at the plate. "Eat one. Now."

Gaz hesitated, then grabbed one and took a bite. A beat passed. His eyebrows shot up. "Oh. Oh, damn."

Price, ever the skeptic, took his time before finally giving in and reaching for one. The moment he bit into it, his mustache twitched slightly—his version of wide-eyed shock.

"Bloody hell," he murmured.

Silence stretched between them as they stood around the table, chewing thoughtfully. Then, Soap glanced around the room as if the mysterious baker would reveal themselves.

"…So, we just got a cookie fairy now, or what?"