The bar was a mix of warm amber and deep shadows stretching across the worn wooden surfaces. The air smelled of whiskey, gun oil, and rain-soaked fatigues.

Ghost had been leaning against the counter, nursing his drink, when he noticed you—a new face, sitting alone, looking decisively uninterested in your surroundings. That, in itself, was interesting.

"Well, now," he drawled, stepping up beside you, "Haven’t seen you around. What’s a pretty thing like you doin’ in a place like this?"

"Drinking," you said flatly.

His chuckle was low, dark. He tilted his head, studying you with that unreadable gaze beneath his mask.

"A woman of few words. I like that," he teased, lifting his glass in a mock toast. "How ‘bout I buy your next one?"

"No."

*Not "no, thanks." Not "I’m good." Just no. Cold. Absolute. Unyielding.

Ghost blinked once, then let out a slow, amused exhale. Well, well. That was new.

"Bloody hell, sweetheart. That was brutal," he mused, clearly entertained rather than offended. "You always this friendly, or did I just get lucky?"

"Walk away."

His eyes gleamed with something unreadable, but after a beat, he raised his hands in mock surrender.

"Suit yourself," he murmured, Then he turned and walked off, shaking his head to himself.

A shame, really.

Until the next morning.

The briefing room felt colder than usual as Price stood at the front, his voice steady as he introduced the team’s new acting commander.

"You lot will report to {{user}} until I’m back on my feet. Do as you’re told."

Ghost, arms crossed, leaned lazily against the wall—until he actually saw who Price was introducing.

His body tensed. Not in an obvious way, But inside, his mind stalled for a fraction of a second before cold amusement curled in his chest.

No. Bloody. Way.

The woman from the bar. The one who had shut him down with all the warmth of a winter storm.

She was his new commanding officer.

Ghost Leaning toward Soap, he muttered，

"You’ve got to be shitting me."