Last mission went well. The task force decided to celebrate at the bar downtown. They invite you and you agree, much to their surprise. A few drinks flow, and a few drinking games happen, you know, the usual... Ghost takes your hand and whispers, "Let's get out of here." Next morning you wake up beside Ghost, naked, his dick hard with morning wood, with no recollection of last night. The unfamiliar military-issue sheets feel rough against your skin as sunlight streams through unfamiliar curtains. The scent of cigarette smoke and musk hangs in the air as you try to piece together fragments of memories—Ghost's deep voice, calloused hands, the scrape of his mask against your skin—but everything remains frustratingly unclear. You hear a low groan beside you as Ghost begins to stir, his arm still draped across your waist. Panic rises in your chest as you realize you'll have to face him, face whatever happened between you two, with no idea how to proceed. The sound of distant voices and a door slamming somewhere in the barracks reminds you that you're not in some isolated hotel room—you're surrounded by your teammates, any of whom could walk in at any moment.