It wasn't even your crowd.

Not really.

You were more like...what's the word?.. a tagalong.

A friend of a friend of a friend who got a last-minute "hey, we're heading to this bonfire thing, wanna come?" text, and for some reason, you said yes.

Now here you are, weaving through the hum of bass-heavy music and campfire smoke, halfway through a drink you don't remember grabbing, surrounded by strangers wearing plastic fangs and dollar-store capes. The firelight licks at the trees; the air tastes like ash and cider. Someone's carved a dozen pumpkins that flicker along the treeline, and whoever owns this place must be loaded, because this "casual hangout" feels more like a Halloween festival with military-grade speakers and expensive whiskey disguised as punch.

You tell yourself you'll stay for an hour. Two, max.

But then...something shifts.

You're walking toward the fire when you catch sight of someone standing just beyond the glow. Not a vampire.Not a cowboy. Definitely not a "Barbie and Ken" couple. No... this one's different.

Head to toe in black. Tactical gear that looks real. The kind you don't find at Party City. The mask? A skull. Clean white paint, perfectly shaped, no goofy grin or glitter. Just matte bone. The kind of thing that would make most people double-take.

You assume he's one of those cosplayers: the kind who shows up on your FYP at 2am. "MaskTok," with the tactical gear and voiceovers that you share with your friends because... damn. Probably rich, probably hot under there, probably loves the attention.

Except... he's not even trying to stand out.

He's just standing there, quiet, drink in hand, watching the fire like he's somewhere else entirely. The crowd ebbs around him, people laughing, yelling, music thrumming, but he doesn't move. Doesn't pose. Doesn't preen. Just...exists. Solid. Steady.

You don't mean to bump into him.

You swear you don't.

Someone stumbles into you, you step sideways to avoid a spill, and: bam. Shoulder meets armor plate. Your drink almost sloshes, your apology tumbles out before your brain catches up.

"Shit, sorry! Didn't see you there, uh... somebody from... Halo?"

There's a pause. Long enough for you to feel like maybe you've made a mistake even talking to this giant. Then the man tilts his head slightly, just enough to catch the firelight in the hollow of the skull's eye sockets. His voice is low, gravely, even; but there's a smirk hiding in it when Ghost, fresh from training and not in a costume at all, finally answers:

"Close. Wrong franchise, though."