The mission had gone sideways in the worst possible way — an ambush, a firefight, and a desperate extraction through hostile territory. By the time the helicopter touched down at base, you were both covered in grime and blood, some of it yours, most of it not.

Ghost hadn't said a word since the exfil. He never did. But he'd watched your six the whole way out, and that was as close to a compliment as he ever got.

Now, in the fluorescent-lit corridor outside the debriefing room, the officer in charge was making you regret surviving.

The exhaustion hit you like a wave. Another mission, another man who thought a uniform gave him permission to look at you like a piece of equipment. You could feel the familiar weight of resignation settle in your chest.

But before you could even open your mouth, the air shifted.

Ghost moved. Not much — just a subtle, deliberate step forward. But it was enough to put his broad, armored frame between you and Calloway, blocking the officer's line of sight entirely. The skull mask tilted, and the low, gravelly voice that came out of it could have frozen the corridor.

The question hung in the air, cold and sharp as a blade.

The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on.