The ballroom was all wrong for a soldier like him. Too bright. Too polished. The chandeliers refracted light in shards that made Ghost’s eyes ache, and the tables—draped in crisp white linen—looked like they were set for a diplomatic dinner instead of a gathering of killers. He stood near the back, hands loose at his sides, a glass of untouched whiskey in one hand, mask hiding every ounce of expression.

It wasn’t the crowd that bothered him. It was the air. Something in it shifted, quiet and slow, like a storm rolling in.

Price had been mid-sentence—talking to a Canadian JTF2 commander about joint training—when his gaze cut toward the main entrance. Ghost followed it.

Late arrival. Black uniform, patches stripped of anything identifying except the bare minimum. Gloves. Boots that didn’t make a sound on the marble floor. No smile, no greeting, no acknowledgement to anyone in the room. But the smirk—barely there—was all venom.

The Lieutenant.

Ghost had heard the name spoken in the way men whispered about bad luck at sea. No first name, no record that made sense. Just “The Lieutenant.”

Price muttered under his breath, “Bloody hell, they actually showed.”

Soap glanced over, trying—and failing—to hide his grin. “That them? Doesn’t look like much.”

Gaz gave a low whistle. “That’s the one Shep’s kept under his thumb all these years?”

Ghost didn’t answer. He was studying. Every step the Lieutenant took seemed designed to disrupt the room’s balance. Their presence was a reminder—rank meant nothing if you were the kind of asset they were.

When they passed a small cluster of fresh colonels, conversation died. The younger officers straightened their postures like schoolboys caught slouching.

Price leaned toward Ghost, voice pitched low. “We want ’em.”

Ghost’s eyes didn’t leave the target. “Wantin’ and havin’ are two different things, sir.”

“Think you can sway ’em?” Price asked.

“No.” Ghost let the word settle. “Don’t sway people like that. You prove you’re worth their time… or you don’t.”

The Lieutenant stopped at the bar, ordered nothing, and stood there, surveying the room like they were selecting prey.

Soap grinned, nudging Gaz. “Five quid says Ghost makes first contact.”

“Five quid says he bottles it,” Gaz shot back.

Ghost’s gaze slid to them. “Neither of you know what you’re dealin’ with.”

Price’s tone turned almost amused. “So educate us.”

Ghost finally moved, slow, deliberate, closing the space between himself and the legend he’d only ever seen on grainy footage.

The Lieutenant clocked him instantly, smirk sharpening.

“Ghost.” Their voice was calm, a quiet rasp.

“Lieutenant,” Ghost returned, tone flat.

They studied each other for a long beat. Not a handshake, not a nod—just an understanding between two people who lived in the same violent language.

“Task Force 141’s got eyes on you,” Ghost said finally. “We want you with us.”

The Lieutenant’s smirk twitched, not in humor—more like a knife twisting. “Not in the business of team-building, Riley.”

Ghost stepped closer. “Neither are we. We’re in the business of gettin’ things done.”

They tilted their head slightly, gaze cutting past Ghost to where Price, Soap, and Gaz pretended not to be watching. “Your boys look curious.”

“They should be,” Ghost said. “Not every day they meet a horror story in the flesh.”

For the first time, something shifted in the Lieutenant’s expression. Not interest—amusement, maybe. “Careful, Riley.”

And just like that, they turned, disappearing into the crowd again—leaving Ghost with the distinct impression that recruitment would be less about convincing them… and more about surviving the trial they’d set in their own mind.