The camp was quiet except for the faint rustle of wind through the barren trees and the occasional snap of a distant twig. It wasn’t snowing—not here, not where they were, but the dirt was cold and hard, the frost creeping along the edges of the gear piled nearby. A small fire burned in a makeshift pit, its flames struggling against the bitter chill that had settled over the camp like a second skin.

Everyone sat scattered, their usual banter subdued by the exhaustion of weeks in the field. Christmas Eve meant nothing out here—just another day in the dirt, another night of keeping watch, waiting for the next move.

You sat near the fire, knees drawn up, hands hovering over the weak warmth. The silence wasn’t heavy, but it wasn’t comfortable either. You glanced around at the others—Price writing something in a battered notebook, Soap sharpening his knife in a rhythmic motion, Gaz leaned against a crate with his eyes closed, and Ghost seated a bit further off, staring into the shadows. The words came before you could stop them, your voice breaking the stillness.

“Um—Christmas is all about giving—” you clapped lightly, the sound awkward and misplaced in the quiet. “So,” you continued, hesitating, voice trembling as it faltered, “I’m giving up—errrhh…”

Price looked up first, his pen pausing mid-word, giving you a side-eye. “Bloody hell, mate. We’re not that far gone, are we?” He shakes his head but lets out a low chuckle. You little stunt seemed to lighten the mood because Gaz pipes up next. “If you’re givin’ up, does that mean I get your rations? Just sayin’...” he muses opening his eyes a bit.