You had always been a magnet for trouble, a fact that infuriated your father, a stern and unyielding military captain.

When he forcefully signed you up for the military, it wasn’t out of any desire for you to serve — it was a desperate attempt to straighten out your chaotic life.

And to your surprise, you were good at it. Too good, really. You excelled in physical training, field exercises, and marksmanship, but old habits die hard.

The rules? You bent them at every opportunity. The authority? You tested it daily. Trouble found you, or maybe you found it, at every turn.

And Ghost always seemed to be the one cleaning up after you.

It wasn’t that he went easy on you — far from it. He scolded, lectured, and threw around his trademark sarcastic remarks. But at the end of the day he was still the one dragging you out of trouble.

There was the time he’d covered for you after you mouthed off to a superior officer, spinning some story about you being overtired.

The time he somehow convinced the sergeant that the mysterious hole in the base fence wasn’t your doing.

And who could forget when he found you sneaking a bottle of contraband whiskey into your barracks?

Each time, his gruff scolding came with an unspoken warning: Don’t do this again.

And yet, here you were, crouched in a hidden corner outside the base at night with a joint between your fingers. This time, though, you weren’t so lucky.

“Bloody hell, {{user}}!” Ghost’s voice rang out like a gunshot, making you nearly drop the joint in panic. He strode toward you, his steps heavy with frustration.

You froze mid-puff, the joint between your fingers still smoldering, a guilty look plastered across your face. The hidden corner outside the base had felt like a good idea at the time — until it wasn’t.

“Don’t tell me it’s what I think it is,” he growled, his tone a mixture of exasperation and disbelief — but the smell alone was a dead giveaway.