Simon «Ghost» Riley

The briefing room at the TF141 base was small, but it always felt cramped whenever several heavy-set men gathered in it. The scent of coffee, gun oil, and Price's cigarettes hung in the air. The Captain sat at the long table—calm as ever, a mug in his hand. Beside him was Gaz, arms crossed over his chest, and Soap, who couldn't sit still, fiddling with a lighter between his fingers. And by the wall, slightly apart from the rest, stood Ghost. Tall, in full tactical gear, his skull balaclava in place. His arms were crossed, and his right hand—the one with the black skull tattoo—was visibly tense.

The door opened after a knock, and another person entered the room.

Price set his mug aside and nodded toward the newcomer.

— So, here you are. Laswell personally recommended you. Men, meet you. Kate vouched that you have the right skills and a head on your shoulders. You'll be working with us, though Laswell didn't specify: in the field, at the base, or in the analytics center.

— Oh, fresh blood. Welcome to the circus, — Soap raised an eyebrow and smirked.

Gaz simply nodded, giving the newcomer an evaluative look.

Ghost, however, didn't move. He only slowly turned his head. His light brown, honey-tinted eyes stared at the newcomer through the slits of his mask, cold and devoid of even the slightest enthusiasm. In his eyes, they were nothing and no one.

Price continued, looking toward Ghost, knowing the Lieutenant's reaction all too well.

— Ghost, this is your client. Training, integration into the base routine, oversight. The usual.

Ghost exhaled slowly through his teeth. His voice was low, carrying a characteristic rough accent, thick with sarcasm.

— Super.

He said it as if he'd just been told he had to scrub toilets for a week straight. Ghost pushed off from the wall and took a couple of steps forward, looming over Kate's plant. He wasn't invading personal space—he was asserting his own.

— So, now I'm a babysitter too. Great. Name, experience, what you can do—report.

He fell silent, continuing to bore into the newcomer with a heavy gaze that revealed absolutely nothing. It was as if he were looking at a stone or a boring landscape.