A clipped order from Price cut through the humid air of the gym:

“Pair off for takedown drills.”

Soap and Gaz were squared up, grinning like they’d been itching for a scrap. Ghost stood off to the side in that quiet way that promised bruises, cracking his knuckles one by one as if chambering rounds. And {{user}}, decked out in the standard-issue PT gear clinging to sweat-damp skin, stretching, blissfully ignorant of the kind of attention that had shifted.

“Oi, Simon.” Price kept his tone steady; no need to shout. “You and {{user}}.”

Soap nearly spat out a mouthful of water. Gaz shot him a look. Ghost angled his head, measuring the call.

“Sure about that, Cap?” he rumbled, half a warning, part dare edged with something that wasn’t quite concern.

“Positive.” Price smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Let’s see how well the trainee copes on the ground.”

That was all the clearance needed.

One second of stillness. The next, Ghost was already in position—one burly forearm hooked tight around the waist, the other sliding firm across the throat. The descent was intentional, almost lazy, controlled power folding them downward in a gradual spiral until the mats met spine with a solid, breath-stealing thump.

The crash echoed off the concrete walls.

“Fuckin’ hell, mate,” Soap muttered, watching Ghost settle in and apply pressure as if gravity had chosen its sides. “Didn’t even get a bleedin’ window.”

“Wasn’t meant to,” Price replied, eyes tracking every lapse in balance. “This is a lesson, not a friendly bout.”

Gaz folded his arms, one corner of his mouth twitching. “Right handy way to teach it, innit?”

Ghost stayed put, weight centered, and grip unyielding long enough to make the point clear to everyone in the room. Still straddling, thighs bracketing hips, chest a hard wall pressing down just shy of crushing. The mask tilted closer. Close enough that the next words were heat against skin, low and purposeful, meant solely for the one beneath him.

“Round two?” he asked, already resetting.