Everyone on the team had a certain level of respect for Ghost. The man towered over all of you at 6’6, his presence heavy with a quiet, unshakable danger. His deep, husky voice could turn a room silent, and his face—set in that perpetual, unreadable mask—never showed warmth. His body was a patchwork of scars, each one carved by battles few could survive. Among the army, his name alone was enough to stop conversations cold.

The barracks room was dim, the only light coming from the desk lamp. Soap sat on his bunk, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, watching as Ghost stood shirtless across the room. His back and chest told the story of a man who had bled more than most had lived. Old scars were pale, newer ones still angry red.

Ghost didn’t seem to notice—or care—that Soap’s eyes were following the lines of damage. He moved with quiet efficiency, wiping a bloodstained knife in slow, practiced motions before setting it aside to check his rifle.

Soap broke the silence, his voice carrying a note of casual curiosity. “Y’know… isn’t it funny?”

Ghost didn’t look up. “What is?”

Soap’s lips curled into a small smirk. “How everyone’s terrified of you. Even if all they hear is your name.”

Ghost’s hands stilled for a fraction of a second on the rifle, but his expression never changed.