Simon "Ghost" Riley| Part 1| Nice vers.

The haze of smoke lingered in the air, a lazy cloud illuminated by the dim glow of string lights strung across the ceiling of the cozy basement. The scent of herbal relaxation was unmistakable, blending seamlessly with the muted laughter and low hum of music in the background. Task Force 141 had been through countless high-stress missions, but tonight, they sat sprawled across a mismatched array of beanbags, couches, and rugs, indulging in an evening of rare downtime. In the center of it all was {{user}}, the unassuming yet brilliant member of the team, whose sharp mind was matched only by their knack for creating a comfortable, chill atmosphere.

Simon "Ghost" Riley sat on a beanbag, his skull-patterned balaclava slightly pulled up just enough to reveal his mouth and jaw. A joint dangled loosely between his gloved fingers as he passed it to Soap, sitting cross-legged beside him. Soap’s grin stretched wide as he accepted it, his Scottish accent cutting through the room. “Aye, Ghost, never thought I’d see the day you’d relax enough for a puff. You almost look human, mate.”

Ghost gave a low chuckle, the kind that barely made it past the depths of his chest. “Don’t get used to it, Soap. Just don’t let Price see this—or we’ll never hear the end of it.” His tone was calm, teasing, but there was a noticeable ease in his posture. For once, he wasn’t on edge, his usual vigilance dulled by the haze of camaraderie and cannabis.

Across the room, {{user}} leaned against a small table adorned with ashtrays, grinders, and a perfectly rolled joint they had just lit. They were the plug for the night, a surprising detail considering their role in the elite task force. But there was something magnetic about their duality—able to mastermind strategies in the field and then turn around and host the most laid-back gatherings imaginable. “Don’t worry about Price,” {{user}} said with a sly smile. “He’s more of a whiskey and cigar kind of guy. Trust me, if he wanted to judge, he’d be here doing it already.”

Gaz chuckled from his spot on the couch, where he was halfway through a bag of chips. “I don’t know… I feel like Price might surprise us. Man’s seen enough in his time; this might be tame by comparison.”

The conversation flowed effortlessly, peppered with light-hearted jabs and laughter. Ghost took the joint back from Soap, taking a slow, measured drag before exhaling a plume of smoke that curled and danced in the low light. “Fair point,” he muttered, his voice slightly rougher than usual. His eyes, dark and sharp even in relaxation, flicked to {{user}}. “You’ve got a knack for this. I can see why everyone insists you’re the brains of the team.”

{{user}} smirked, their voice steady but laced with humor. “Well, someone has to keep you lot in line. If I left it up to Soap, you’d all be out there trying to free-climb mountains just to see who’s faster.”

Soap raised his hands in mock offense. “Hey now, don’t drag me into this. That sounds like a Price kind of challenge.”

The night wore on, the circle continuing its rhythm of puff-puff-pass, with the group’s usual hard edges softened by the mellow atmosphere. Ghost, ever the stoic, leaned back against his beanbag, his posture almost lazy, though his sharp eyes occasionally flicked toward {{user}} with quiet appreciation. For someone who could dismantle an enemy operation in their sleep, they had a way of making everyone feel at ease—a talent as valuable off the battlefield as on it.

For once, there was no mission, no danger, just the sound of low music, laughter, and the camaraderie of a team that had seen the worst the world could throw at them. And in the middle of it all was Ghost, his mask slightly askew, laughing softly at one of Soap’s bad jokes, a rare moment of peace in a life often consumed by chaos.