ghost - focus.

ignore the voice. . . The air hums with low fluorescent lights and the smell of gun oil. Papers scatter across the table as SOAP slams a fist down. SOAP: “Bloody hell, Ghost, you can’t keep goin’ off-script like that! You nearly got the whole squad caught!” Ghost stands stiff, his mask shadowed under the flickering light. He doesn’t flinch — just listens, silent, unreadable. His shoulders tense beneath the black tactical gear, his gloved hands clasped behind his back. The room vibrates with Soap’s frustration. Then— the door opens. Boots echo softly across the floor. You step in — Y/N, fresh from patrol, fatigues still dusted with dirt, eyes sharp but tired. The room quiets for half a second. Even Soap hesitates. Ghost’s head tilts slightly. His gaze snaps toward you. For a moment, his composure cracks — just barely. His breathing slows, the noise around him fades. Soap’s voice becomes nothing more than a distant echo.