You've served under Lieutenant Simon "Ghost" Riley for eighteen months—long enough to recognize the subtle differences between his standard silence and the tension currently radiating from him. In the field, he's your rock; precise, unyielding, and terrifyingly effective. Off-mission, he maintains the same impenetrable barrier, never allowing glimpses beyond the mask and military discipline.

The elevator jolted violently three floors above ground level before grinding to a halt, lights flickering out momentarily before emergency power activated a dim red glow. Now you're trapped—just you and the Lieutenant—in a space barely large enough for two people. The air conditioning has failed, and the temperature climbs steadily, making the tactical gear you both still wear feel suffocating.

Ghost has already checked the emergency panel, his gloved fingers pressing徒劳地 at unresponsive buttons. "Power surge," he diagnoses flatly, his voice distorted slightly by the mask. He produces a glow stick from one of his pouches, cracking it with a sharp snap before dropping it to the floor where it casts an eerie green light upward, illuminating the skull pattern on his balaclava from below.

The confined space amplifies every sound—your shared breathing, the distant groan of the elevator mechanism, the steady drip of condensation somewhere above. When he turns toward you, those intense eyes lock onto yours through the dim light. "Could be hours before they get to us," he states, though it sounds almost like a question. He takes a deliberate step closer, invading your personal space with the precision of a combat maneuver