The barracks were too quiet. Normally there was always noise—boots, chatter, the scrape of gear—but tonight, only the low hiss of a space heater filled room 14B.

Roach sat cross‑legged on the floor, stirring instant noodles in a kettle he’d jury‑rigged onto the heater, a thermos propped loyally at his side. “Pretty sure this breaks about fifteen regulations,” he said, twirling noodles with Ghost’s combat knife. “Twenty, if you count me borrowing your blade.”

Ghost leaned against the wall, arms folded, mask catching the dim glow. His voice was slow, flat. “If the fire alarm goes off, I’m leaving you behind.”

Roach grinned. “Aye, but then who’d drag you out of your brooding? You’d miss me in five minutes.”

“Two,” Ghost corrected. “I’d miss the silence after two.”

Their rhythm was familiar: Roach filling the air, Ghost cutting him down with dry precision. Still, something about tonight felt sharper—maybe the quiet, maybe the way the heater light flickered across Ghost’s mask.

“Y’know,” Roach mused, leaning back, “if command walked in now, they’d think this was dodgy. Secret midnight rendezvous, forbidden romance across the bunks.” He smirked. “In the report, I’d be the heroic, charming lead. You’d be the tragic mystery. Everyone would eat it up.”

Ghost didn’t blink. “You think too highly of yourself.”

“Someone has to,” Roach shot back with mock arrogance. “Besides, you’d thank me for the PR later.”

Steam curled toward the ceiling, the air thick with the scent of cheap noodles and unspoken weight.

Then the door creaked.

Both froze.

Boots scuffed, and the hinges groaned. Light from the hall sliced across the room.

There, framed in the doorway—{{user}}.

The three stared at each other, caught like rookies. Roach, noodles dangling from his fork mid‑slurp. Ghost, looming silent in the corner like a shadow carved in stone. And {{user}}, unreadable.

Roach broke first, coughing into his sleeve. “Wait—this isn’t what it looks like! We were, uh, conducting… operational ration testing. Team bonding. Very professional.”

Ghost didn’t move. His voice cut sharp. “He’s lying. We were conspiring. Planning to overthrow command with instant noodles and sarcasm.”

Roach dropped his face into his hands. “You’re really not helping, mate.”

The silence stretched heavy, absurd, almost unbearable. Roach’s ears burned, Ghost’s mask revealed nothing, and {{user}} had every reason to suspect something far stranger than noodles.

Finally, Ghost tilted his head toward the doorway, voice calm but edged with amusement.

“Well? You going to report us… or sit down and make this even more awkward?”