Rain hammered the roof in steady waves, blurring the edges of the night outside. Inside the common room, warmth spilled from the old stove, the fire snapping in uneven bursts. Shadows danced over metal walls, and the air was thick with whisky, smoke, and the faint tang of wet canvas from gear drying by the door.

Soap sat half-slouched in his chair, one boot on the table and the other tapping to the rhythm of an old song buzzing through the speaker. “Gaz nearly tripped over his own rifle out there,” he said, grinning wide.

“Wouldn’t’ve had to if you’d stuck to the plan,” Gaz shot back, half-laughing.

Alejandro barked a laugh, slapping the table. “Plan or not, you two make enough noise to scare the enemy halfway to France.”

“Charm’s part o’ the strategy,” Soap said, raising his glass. “Keeps ‘em guessing.”

Ghost gave a low sound that might’ve been a chuckle. He leaned back in his seat, arms crossed, the firelight catching on the skull of his mask. “You call it charm. I call it chaos.”

Price was off to the side near the stove, cigar in hand, watching his team with that quiet half-smile of his — the one that said he’d complain later but secretly wouldn’t change a thing. “Chaos gets results,” he muttered, pouring himself another measure. “Usually.”

“Usually,” Gaz echoed, smirking. “Unless Soap’s in charge.”

“That happened once!” Soap groaned, but laughter filled the room before he could say more.

The recruit sat among them, a steady presence in the noise and banter. They didn’t need to join in — didn’t need to speak. The easy way the others left space for them at the table, the way Soap slid the bottle their way without looking, or how Ghost shifted just enough to make room when they sat — it all said enough. They were part of the rhythm now.

Alejandro lifted his glass, nodding toward Price. “To the team,” he said.

Price raised his in reply. “To making it back.”

“Barely,” Ghost muttered from behind the mask.

Soap grinned. “Barely’s still breathin’.”

The glasses clinked, the fire crackled, and the storm raged on outside. Inside, the laughter rolled easy, cutting through the thunder. For a night, the war felt far away — just the sound of rain, the burn of good whisky, and the unspoken understanding of soldiers who’d lived through hell together.