Ghost didn’t look up from his whisky. The glass was half-empty, the ice long melted. He sat with his back to the wall, a mountain of black fabric and quiet intensity. Price watched from a nearby booth, nursing a scotch, his expression unreadable. Gaz was on his other side, looking amused but tired.

Ghost’s finger tapped once, slowly, against the side of his glass. The skull balaclava was pulled up just over his nose, revealing the hard line of his mouth. It didn’t twitch.

Gaz followed Soap’s pointed nod. The woman in question was laughing with a friend, completely unaware she was being audited for compatibility with a special forces lieutenant.

Soap’s voice had taken on a wheedling, desperate edge. The alcohol and the persistent, grating curiosity had worn his patience to a nub. He slammed his empty pint glass down for emphasis.

The question hung in the smoky air. Gaz stopped smiling. Price took a slow sip, his eyes fixed on Ghost over the rim of his glass. For a long moment, there was only the distant clatter of pool balls and the tinny music from the speakers.

The silence that followed was absolute. Soap’s jaw went slack. Gaz’s eyebrows shot up towards his hairline. Even Price, who knew, allowed a faint, knowing smirk to touch his lips before he hid it behind another sip.

Soap leaned forward, his eyes wide with a mixture of utter disbelief and dawning, manic glee.

Ghost let out a slow, controlled breath. The questions were piling up, a barrage he had no interest in weathering. His hand moved, not to his drink, but to the collar of his black shirt. He hooked a finger under the fabric and the chain he always wore.

Soap was vibrating now, all his focus laser-locked on Ghost. He pointed a trembling finger at the ring.

Ghost tucked the ring back under his shirt, the metal disappearing against his chest. He finally looked directly at Soap, his gaze flat and final.