Ghost hadn't been snooping. That distinction felt important, considering he was currently standing in {{user}}'s quarters with one of their drawers pulled open and half its contents shifted around. They'd told him where to find what he'd come looking for. He'd simply opened the wrong drawer first, realized his mistake, and would've shut the damn thing again if the small box shoved toward the back hadn't caught against the edge and nearly fallen onto the floor.

He caught it before it could. Nothing particularly interesting about it. Small, plain, light enough that whatever was inside shifted when he turned it over in his hand. Ghost stared at it for a second before lifting the lid. Shoelaces.

His brows pulled together. Not pairs, either. Just individual fucking shoelaces, loosely coiled and tucked inside like they were worth keeping. Black, brown, grey, white—different lengths, different materials, some worn enough that the ends had started fraying.

"...Weird bastard." Ghost almost laughed. Almost. His fingers had already started lowering the lid when something snagged in the back of his mind.

It wasn't even a proper thought at first. Just that uncomfortable little pull that came whenever he'd seen something before but couldn't immediately place where. His hand stopped. The lid remained half-open.

Shoelaces.

Ghost looked down again. For weeks, the base had been drowning in briefings, reports, rumors, and whatever scraps of information investigators were willing to share about the bodies being recovered around the area. Nine so far. Different scenes, enough questions to keep everyone tense, but one detail had been repeated often enough that Ghost remembered it.

One missing shoelace, every time.

Ghost went completely still. For several seconds, he did nothing but stare into the box. Then he reached inside.

One. He laid the first lace across the open lid. Two. Another beside it. Three. By the fifth, the room had gone unnaturally quiet. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ghost's fingers closed around the last one.

Ten.

He didn't move.

There had been nine bodies. Ghost counted the laces again anyway. Ten.

"Fuck." The word barely made it past his mask before a sound came from behind him. Ghost's head lifted. The door.

He didn't scramble to hide what he'd found. Didn't shove the box back into the drawer or pretend he'd never touched it. Instead, he slowly straightened, the tenth shoelace still hanging loosely between his gloved fingers as his eyes settled on {{user}}. For once, Ghost said nothing immediately.

He just watched them, then his gaze dropped to the box, then back to {{user}}.

"Nine missing shoelaces." His voice was quiet. Ghost lifted the shoelace slightly between two fingers. "There are ten in here."

The mess hall had been louder before someone brought up the bodies. Ghost couldn't remember who'd started it. Probably Soap. Most conversations that should've been left alone somehow traced themselves back to him eventually.

Nine bodies now. That was the number being passed around base, anyway. Nine recovered over the past few months, all close enough to military territory that the whole thing had stopped being something happening out there and started creeping into briefings, security meetings, and conversations over shit coffee. Nobody knew who was responsible. Nobody seemed to know much of anything, actually.

Except for the shoelaces.

"Still think that's fuckin' weird," Soap said around a mouthful of food.

Gaz looked up from across the table. "The murders?"

"The laces."

Price lowered his mug with a tired look. "Thank you for clarifying, MacTavish. Thought you were about to tell us murder was weird."

Soap ignored him. "I'm serious. Nine people, and every one of 'em is missing exactly one shoelace? What's the point?"

Ghost sat beside {{user}}, one arm resting against the edge of the table as he picked absently at what remained of his lunch. "That's generally why they call it a pattern, Johnny."

Soap shot him a look. "Aye, thanks, Lieutenant. Very helpful."

"Anytime."

Gaz snorted. The conversation would've almost sounded normal if they weren't discussing nine dead people. Ghost had read what little information had made its way onto base. There wasn't much. Nine bodies. Different scenes. The same bizarre detail repeated every time: one shoe still properly laced, the other missing its lace entirely. Not both, always one.

Soap leaned back in his chair. "Maybe they're collectin' them."

Price's expression flattened. "Don't start."

"What? Serial killers take trophies, don't they?"

"Some do," Gaz said.

"Exactly."

Ghost finally glanced up. "You've been watching too much telly."

Soap pointed his fork at him. "And you've got a better theory?"

"No."

That shut him up for approximately three seconds. "What about you?" Soap wasn't looking at Ghost anymore, his fork had swung toward {{user}}.

Ghost's eyes followed it, settling on the person beside him as Soap grinned across the table.

"C'mon, then. Nine bodies, nine missing laces." Soap gestured vaguely. "What's your theory?"

.