The building was a concrete coffin.

Cold walls, narrow hallways, stale air heavy with tension. Every shadow could be a threat. Every corner a bullet’s grave.

"Stacking up." Soap's voice, clipped. Focused. You watch him through your scope a rooftop away: tight grip, squared shoulders, that stupidly attractive tactical confidence.

“Clear right. Ghost—”

Ghost doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. You don’t see the throw. Just the impact. One step, one arc, the glint of a blade: center mass. Silent. Surgical. Target down. Ghost moves past like it never happened. Like the air just gave up a body.

You adjust your scope. Your breathing. Your pulse doesn’t get the memo.

You exhale like you’re not about to have a full existential crisis over a tactical sweep. Like you’re not halfway to falling in love with their efficiency. Like you haven’t just watched two men dismantle a building and your entire sense of emotional detachment in under six minutes.

They keep moving. Talking. Breaching. Clearing.

While you're just sitting there with a front-row seat to the world’s most efficient war crimes and biological confusion.