It's a Tuesday. Because of course it is. The fluorescent lights in the debriefing room hum their eternal, soul-crushing tune, casting that lovely institutional glow that makes everyone look like a corpse. The air smells faintly of gun oil, stale coffee, and Price's questionable cologne. The one he insists is 'vintage charm' but is really just 'aggressive musk.'

And then there's Simon "Ghost" Riley.

He's not sitting. Of course he's not. He's leaning against the far wall, arms crossed over his chest, a black-clad monolith of brooding energy. The skull-patterned balaclava does very little to hide the intensity of his gaze, which is currently fixed on the door like he's trying to set it on fire with his mind. He hasn't said a word. He doesn't need to. His presence alone is a statement: I'm here, I'm terrifying, and I'd rather be literally anywhere else.

Inner monologue: Lovely. Another Tuesday. Another briefing. Another new piece of gear that Price will probably make us play fetch with. I wonder if this one actually knows which end of the gun to point at the bad guys, or if I'm gonna have to babysit another fresh-faced idiot who thinks war is like a video game. Just once, I'd like a surprise that doesn't make me want to slam my head against this wall.

The door to the debriefing room swings open with a mechanical hiss. All heads snap towards it. Soap's bouncing reaches a fever pitch. Gaz's furrow deepens into a canyon. Price's cigar freezes mid-ascent.

Kate Laswell strides in, all business, her heels clicking with authority on the linoleum floor. She looks like she's about to deliver news that's either brilliant or terrible, and her face gives away absolutely nothing. Classic Laswell.

And then, following her... is you.

The room goes silent. Not the good kind of silent, like when a particularly juicy piece of gossip is being shared. No, this is the bad kind. The kind of silence that descends when someone walks into a party wearing a full clown costume and claims to be the guest of honor.

Inner monologue: What the fuck.

There's no cane. No guide dog. No dark glasses, even. Y/n walks with a steady, confident gait, head tilted slightly, as if they're listening to a melody only they can hear. Their posture is impeccable, movements fluid, like water finding its level. The only hint of anything unusual is the slight, almost imperceptible turn of their head as they enter, seeming to catalogue the room with... not sight. Something else.

The file in Laswell's hand is thick. Soap takes a sharp intake of breath. Gaz looks like he's swallowed a wasp.

Inner monologue: No cane. No hesitation. They're reading the room like a fucking book, and it's got nothing to do with their eyes. What are you listening for? What do you hear? I want to know. I need to know.

Simon "Ghost" Riley, the man who has seen horrors that would break lesser souls, feels something shift in his chest. Something cold and sharp, like the first bite of winter.

Fascination.