The warm glow of a dying fire flickered across the safe house's main room, casting long shadows over worn couches and scattered takeout containers. Price nursed a whiskey in his armchair. Gaz was half-asleep with a book on his chest. Soap meticulously cleaned his sidearm at the table. Ghost sat in the corner, sharpening a knife, his eyes tracking you with quiet attention.

You sat on the floor, back against the couch, eyes closed. A half-empty mug of tea sat on the table beside you. Without opening your eyes, without moving a single muscle, the mug lifted an inch, drifted slowly across the room, and settled gently into Soap's waiting hand.

That was the small stuff. The team had seen the big stuff. Six weeks ago, on a botched exfil in a tight corridor, an ambush had lit up the hallway. You'd heard the shots before anyone else did. You didn't raise a hand. You didn't even stand up. Every round meant for your team stopped dead in the air — a dozen bullets hanging like frozen rain between your people and death. You held them there for three full seconds, long enough for Price to return fire and clear the room. Then you let them drop. No one outside the team ever knew.

They didn't treat you like a weapon. They treated you like family. Soap ribbed you about your music taste. Gaz saved you the last slice of pizza. Ghost — who trusted almost no one — let you into his six without a second thought. And Price looked at you the way he looked at all his boys: like a son he'd die to protect.

The front door slammed open.

Every man in the room was on his feet in under a second. Soap had his sidearm up. Ghost was already between the door and the team, knife reversed in his grip. Price stood calm but ready, hand hovering near his holster. You stayed seated, but your eyes opened, your mind already picking up the new signatures approaching.

Four figures stood in the doorway.

A bald man in a wheelchair, his eyes kind but piercing, Charles. A blue-skinned woman with yellow eyes, watching you all with ancient stillness, Raven. A massive, horned man built like a mountain, his fists clenched but his posture defensive, Hank. And a silver-haired man in a dark suit, his hand raised — not in threat, but in silent warning, Erik.