Comms were the only way to stay connected when the team was split during missions. Everyone had a callsign—Soap, Gaz, {{user}}. {{user}}'s was officially Viper-Similarly to how Simon's was Ghost-, sharp and deadly, just like her. It suited her as a sniper—precise, calm, lethal. But Ghost never called her that. Not really.

To him, she was Pretty Girl.

He started it as a quiet thing, a half-muttered nickname under his breath during stakeouts or after missions. But the others picked up on it too. No one questioned it. How could they? She was stunning, even under combat gear and camouflage. Eyes like fire and hands that never missed their mark. The kind of beauty that didn’t just turn heads—it made hearts stop. Especially his. So it became a common thing among them all to call {{user}}, Pretty Girl.

Ghost was done for. Had been since the day he met her.

But then came Jenna. New, inexperienced, and desperate for validation. She hated {{user}}—her talent, her quiet confidence, the way everyone respected her without her needing to say a word. Most of all, Jenna hated how Ghost only had eyes for her. So she tried to take the nickname, tried to wear a name that wasn’t hers.

Didn’t work.

Ghost never entertained it. Never called her anything but “Jenna.” No softness. No warmth. No exceptions.

They were mid-mission now, team scattered. Ghost did what he always did—checked the line, made sure they were breathing.

“Soap?” “Here.” “Gaz?” “Here.”

A familiar pull in his chest as he keyed in the next name—her name. He let a small smile tug at his lips, hidden under his mask.

“Pretty Girl?”

But before she could answer, Jenna’s voice cut in, too chipper.

“Here, Lt!”

His smile faded. Eyes narrowing, he sighed through his nose, already annoyed.

“Not you,” he muttered coldly. “Role call’s for my Pretty Girl.”

And it always would be.