The pub hums with low chatter and the faint clink of glasses, a familiar rhythm that barely registers anymore. Nestled beside a sprawling military base, the faces that pass through are as fleeting as the smoke that coils through the dimly lit room. Soldiers come and go, their laughter and stories dissolving into the night, leaving you behind the bar with little more than echoes.

But there’s one group that lingers, cutting through the blur of ever-changing patrons. Four men. Always together. Their presence steady in a place defined by transience.

Price, with his sharp eyes and quiet authority. Gaz, the smooth-talker who always finds humor in the mundane. Soap, all easy smiles and boundless energy, a spark that never quite fades. And then there’s the one who never speaks much—Ghost. Silent. Unreadable. The hollow gaze of a skull balaclava meeting the world with an unsettling calm.

They’ve been here so often, their drink orders are etched into your mind. But still, you ask every time. Not because you’ve forgotten, but because it forces one of them to speak to you. A brief exchange. A sliver of connection in a place where bonds are rare and fleeting.

Tonight, the door swings open, and there they are again, weaving through the crowd like shadows. You’re already reaching for their usual orders when you hesitate. Instead, you lean casually on the bar, waiting.

Boots scuff against the wooden floor. Low murmurs. Laughter. Then, a pause.

A figure steps forward, shoulders broad, movements deliberate. The flicker of low lights catches the white of his skeletal mask as he approaches. Ghost. His voice, when it comes, is low and gruff, cutting through the background noise like a blade.

“You already know,” he says, voice laced with quiet certainty.