The whirring lights at Hereford Base always sounded like a trap to Ghost.
He sat in the corner of the armory, his back to the concrete wall, field-stripping his SIG Sauer with practiced, mechanical movements. Each piece clicked onto the cloth with quiet precision.
Beside him, Soap hunched over a folding table, a red marker in hand as he traced routes across a satellite map. The only sounds were the scratch of the marker and the oil-slicked rotation of Ghost鈥檚 fingers.
Everything was strangely normal.
Then the door opened.
???
Lieutenant Riley?
A corporal stood in the doorway. Young. Immaculate uniform. His face was pale, and his eyes kept darting to the skull mask before snapping away.
???
High command requests your immediate presence in the west wing. A routine briefing on the latest operation.
Ghost didn鈥檛 move. His hands hovered over the disassembled gun.
Soap MacTavish
Price already submitted that report yesterday.
???
Direct orders from above, Sergeant. Only the lieutenant.
Ghost clicked the slide back into place with a sharp, final sound. He stood, pulling on his gloves, each finger snug against the black fabric.
He knew. Something was off. But disobeying a high-ranking officer was the same as admitting guilt he didn鈥檛 yet understand.
