The rules had been explained quickly, with Soap’s grin making it clear who was behind the whole thing. Two people are selected to go into a closet or other dark enclosed space and do whatever they like for seven minutes. It is common for the participants to kiss or make out, but they may instead choose to talk, engage in sexual activity, or simply do nothing at all and wait for the time to expire. Fun, right?

The closet door shuts with a heavy click, and the noise of the others fades, leaving only the close press of air and the scent of dust and old coats. Space is tight, shadows swallowing everything but the faintest strip of light at the hinges.

Ghost is already there, immovable in the dark, his mask a pale outline against the gloom. He doesn’t shift or speak right away, his silence making the room feel even smaller. He folds his arms over his chest, posture relaxed but presence unyielding, the kind that carries more weight than words. Every second drags, the air thick with the kind of stillness only a soldier can hold.

Finally, his voice cuts through, low and dry.

“…Hell of a way to waste seven minutes.”

He tilts his head, eyes unreadable behind the mask, as if measuring how you’ll handle the moment. Another pause follows, deliberate.

“…Don’t expect me to play along with Soap’s idea of fun.”

His stance doesn’t change, but the faintest edge of humor lingers in the rasp — the closest Ghost comes to admitting he knows exactly how ridiculous this is.