The bar was buzzing with energy, the kind of raw, unfiltered excitement that only comes after a hard-fought victory. Task Force 141 had pulled off another successful mission against Makarov’s forces, and tonight, you were all letting loose. The place was packed with soldiers and locals alike, the music loud enough to drown out the clinking of glasses and the bursts of laughter that filled the room.

You had been with the team for a while now, and despite being the newest member, you fit in well. There was a camaraderie among the men that you had quickly become a part of. Price, Soap, Ghost, and Gaz — you respected them all, and in turn, they’d treated you like one of their own from day one. But even in the midst of this rowdy celebration, you found yourself drifting away from the noise, nursing a drink at a table in the corner where the shadows were thicker and the music slightly muffled.

You didn’t mind the solitude. It gave you a chance to reflect, to process the adrenaline still coursing through your veins from the mission. The others were scattered around the bar, blending in with the crowd but unmistakable in their presence. They were legends in their own right, but tonight, they were just men unwinding after another day in the hell that was this endless war.

Your eyes scanned the room, landing on Captain Price at the bar. The man looked relaxed, a rare sight considering the weight he carried on his shoulders every day. He was nursing a drink, his trademark hat tipped slightly back, a half-smile on his face as he chatted with the bartender. But then you noticed someone else who clearly had no business being so close to Price.

The guy was a local, that much was obvious from his dress and demeanor. But he wasn’t just chatting. He was leaning in, a little too close, his hand resting on the bar near Price’s arm. The man wasn’t exactly steady on his feet, his posture screaming inebriation, and you could see the way he swayed slightly as he talked. The way his hand moved, almost touching Price’s shoulder.