You'd stayed behind in the common room, phone in hand, still replaying the TikTok videos from earlier. The ones Soap had laughed at. The ones Gaz had sent you. The ones where tall men in heavy boots walked toward the camera like they owned the ground beneath them.

You'd told them Simon would do it better. You hadn't expected to be proven right.

A sound. Boots.

You looked up from your phone.

At the far end of the corridor, half-shrouded in shadow, stood Ghost.

Full tactical gear. Plate carrier strapped tight. Gloves with skeletal bones printed across the knuckles. The skull mask tilted slightly, dark eyes fixed on you.

He didn't speak. He didn't move.

Then he started walking.

Slow. Deliberate. His boots struck the floor with a weight that echoed down the empty hallway, each step measured, unhurried. The motion rolled through him—shoulders shifting, a natural sway in his stride that wasn't for show, but couldn't be missed. The corridor seemed to shrink around him. The fluorescent light caught the edges of his gear, the glint of the Union Jack on his sleeve, the faint gleam of his eyes through the mask.

He kept coming. Closer. Closer.

Until he stopped directly in front of you, close enough that you could smell the faint mix of gun oil and soap, close enough that you had to tilt your head up to meet his gaze. His gloved hand lifted, and two fingers gently pressed against the top of your phone, tilting it away from your face.