The base had its usual hum of activity. Soldiers moved like clockwork, training, checking gear, preparing for their next mission. But something about today felt different. Something was off, lingering in the air—the sharp scent of gunpowder mixing with the metallic tang of nervous sweat. It was the way Sergeant Harper kept hovering near Ghost, her voice too loud over the clatter of equipment, her actions too calculated as she brushed imaginary dust from his tactical vest.

She had made it clear, in subtle but undeniable ways, that she was trying to wedge herself between Ghost and them. It was a game for her. Not subtle in the least. Every word she spoke, every gesture she made, was designed to get under their skin like an itch that wouldn't quit. She knew exactly what she was doing, and it was getting harder and harder to ignore as the hours dragged on.

"Ghost," Harper called out with that too-sweet tone, standing just a little too close to Ghost—close enough that her shoulder occasionally brushed his arm. "You're such a great guy. You deserve someone who can keep up with you, someone who knows how to handle someone like you."

Her eyes flickered over to them, that smirk never fading from her face like she was enjoying a private joke at their expense. "I mean, they don't exactly look like they're on your level, do they?"

The words stung like ant bites—small individually but burning collectively—even if she never directly aimed them at them. It wasn't the words themselves—it was the way she used them like weapons, the way she acted like they weren't even there, like they were just part of the scenery.