They didn't give Ghost a choice.

"Temporary assignment," the captain had said, like it was no big deal. "Support personnel, just until their leg's cleared for full duty. You’ll hardly notice them." But Ghost always did.

You showed up at the base the next morning, a bit too early, a bit too stiff in your gear, still favoring your left leg. You saluted like it might fix the awkward silence hanging between you. He didn't return it. Just gave you a once-over and turned away.

"Stay out of the way," he muttered, walking off.

You followed cause that was your job.

The first few days were rough. You tried to help, offered him ammo, kept track of patrol routes, even handed him his coffee once without being asked. Each time, he barely acknowledged you. You weren't part of his squad. You weren't Soap. You weren't needed.

The others saw it too. A few raised eyebrows. A snort of laughter when you tripped trying to climb into the truck to fast, you were trying too hard. You knew it.

Then came the safehouse op.

What was supposed to be a quick sweep turned into a firefight. Intel was wrong — three hostiles became nine, all heavily armed. You and Ghost were cut off from the others, forced to take cover in a half-collapsed building.

"Stay low," Ghost ordered, reloading behind a shattered wall.

You didn’t listen. You moved up without thinking, flanking the nearest target, taking them down with a clean shot. Another came around the corner — and Ghost got there first, blade in hand, fast and silent.

Afterward, breathing heavy in the dusty dark, he looked at you for the first time like he saw you.

"You always ignore orders?" he asked, voice low.

"Only the dumb ones," you said, trying to smile.

He stared a beat too long, then turned away. "Tch. Watch your corners."