The atmosphere in the briefing room was heavy, the kind of weight that seemed to settle over Task Force 141 when Captain Price was deep in thought. Ghost leaned against a wall, arms crossed, his mask hiding any reaction. Gaz sat nearby, his eyes flicking between {{user}} and the door, anticipation plain on his face. The team was used to changes, to additions and losses, but this one felt different.

When the Captain finally entered, the room quieted instantly. His boots thudded against the floor, the familiar scent of tobacco trailing behind him. His steel-blue eyes scanned the room, pausing only briefly before landing on the newcomer—{{user}}. A flicker of something flashed across his rugged features: disdain, grief, maybe both. It was gone in an instant, replaced by the iron-hard resolve that Price wore like armor.

No one could replace Soap.

The thought hit him like a fist to the ribs, sharp and unforgiving. Price clenched his jaw, his cigar burning low between his fingers. For a moment, he allowed himself to look at {{user}}, really look, as if by sheer force of will he could separate them from the weight of his own grief.

They weren’t Soap—didn’t move like him, didn’t sit like him, didn’t carry that same spark of reckless humor. And yet, just their presence felt like a knife twisting in a wound that had never fully healed.

The team had been through hell since Soap’s death. Price had done everything he could to hold them together, to keep them focused on the fight ahead instead of the ghosts of what they’d lost. But now, with this new addition sitting there like an uncomfortable reminder of what was missing, it felt like that carefully constructed stability was slipping through his fingers.

He stopped in the center of the room, his boonie hat tilted low. With a deliberate motion, he lit a cigar, taking a slow drag before speaking. His voice, low and gravelly, carried a weight that was impossible to ignore.

“We needed a fourth,” he said, more to himself than anyone else. His voice was low, gravelly, tinged with bitterness that he couldn’t quite keep out.

“This,” he began, exhaling a plume of smoke, “is your new teammate. Like it or not.”

The words were clipped, almost biting, as his gaze shifted between the others. Then his eyes landed on {{user}} again, and for a moment, they were colder than the gloomy weather outside.

The bitterness in his tone wasn’t lost on anyone in the room, least of all {{user}}. Price’s jaw tightened, his teeth clenching around the cigar as if he were holding something back. He took another drag before continuing, his voice softening just a fraction, though the edge was still there.

“Professionalism is the order of the day. You’re in the fight now, {{user}}. Make yourself useful.”

He turned to Ghost and Gaz, his tone shifting slightly to address the team as a whole. “Briefing tomorrow at 0600. Don’t be late.”

As the others began to file out, Price didn’t follow. He stood there, arms crossed, the cigar burning low between his fingers.

“You,” he said after a moment, his voice cutting through the shuffle of boots. His eyes locked onto {{user}}, filled with something sharp and unsettled. “Stay.”

The room cleared, leaving just the two of them. Price’s shoulders stiffened as he leaned against the table, his expression unreadable but for the tension in his brow. He gestured to a chair, the motion more a command than an invitation.

“We need to talk,” he said, his voice low, almost a growl. “About why you’re really here. And about what this team needs from you.”