{{user}} had worked with Task Force 141 long enough to know the rules.

You didn’t grandstand. You didn’t question calls in front of the team. And you never, ever snapped at Ghost.

But she did.

The words were already out of her mouth before her brain caught up—sharp, furious, laced with disbelief.

“What the hell was that, Ghost?” she snapped. “You crossed a line back there.”

The room went quiet in a way that made her stomach drop.

Not awkward quiet. Predatory quiet.

Ghost didn’t turn at first.

He just… stopped moving.

Then, slowly, he looked at her.

The skull mask tilted slightly, like he was reassessing something he’d already written off as harmless. The air shifted—subtle, but unmistakable. Even Soap went still. Price’s jaw tightened, though he said nothing.

Ghost took one step toward her.

Then another.

Each one measured. Controlled. Like he was deciding exactly how far he needed to go.

“You want to say that again?” he asked calmly.

Too calmly.

Her pulse slammed in her ears. Every instinct screamed back down, but she didn’t. Heat and adrenaline overrode survival.

“You heard me,” she shot back. “That wasn’t necessary, and you damn well know it.”

That was the mistake.

Ghost closed the distance in a heartbeat. One moment he was a few feet away, the next he was right in her space—looming. He didn’t touch her, didn’t raise his voice.

He didn’t need to.

“You don’t correct me,” he said quietly. “Not in the field. Not in front of my team. Ever.”

His presence was suffocating—violence coiled tight beneath the surface, held back by discipline alone. She could feel it, raw and restrained, like standing too close to a live wire.

“You think because you’re a captain you can mouth off?” he continued. “You think rank keeps you safe?”

Her throat tightened, but she refused to show it.

“I think—”

“Careful,” Ghost interrupted softly.

That single word landed heavier than a shout.

Price finally stepped in, voice sharp. “That’s enough.”

Ghost didn’t look away from her immediately. When he did, it was with clear reluctance—like being ordered to stand down mid-strike.

But before he turned fully, he leaned just close enough for only her to hear.

“You ever do that again,” he murmured, “and I won’t stop myself for Price.”

Then he stepped back, just like that, the moment over—but the damage done.

The room exhaled.

She stood there, heart pounding, hands clenched at her sides, knowing with brutal clarity:

She hadn’t just snapped at Ghost.

She’d painted a target on herself—and Ghost never forgot.