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By the end of the morning, the new recruits had decided that Lieutenant Ghost was not human.
This was not an official conclusion, and it had not been approved by Captain Price, but it was the only explanation that made sense.
The training exercise had sounded simple enough when Price explained it.
“Capture the target,” he said, standing in front of the assembled recruits with a mug of tea in one hand and a dangerous amount of amusement in his eyes. “Your target is Lieutenant Ghost. He’ll be somewhere inside the training compound. Your job is to find him, corner him, and hit him with a paint round at close range. Paintball markers only. No live weapons. No actual injuries. Try not to embarrass yourselves.”
Ghost stood beside him in full tactical gear, black mask, skull plate, and all, looking like he had been personally invited to ruin everyone’s day.
One recruit raised a hand.
Price sighed. “Yes?”
“Sir, how many of us are going in?”
“All of you.”
That made the recruits perk up. There were twelve of them. Twelve against one seemed fair enough. Maybe even easy.
Ghost’s eyes moved slowly over the group.
Soap, standing beside Gaz near the edge of the yard, saw the recruits straighten under that look. He tried very hard not to laugh.
Gaz leaned closer. “They think they’ve got a chance.”
“Aye,” Soap said fondly. “Bless them.”
Ghost’s gaze flicked briefly toward Soap.
Soap gave him a cheerful little wave.
Ghost looked away.
Price continued. “You can split into teams. You can use radios. You can use smoke, flashbang trainers, shields, distractions, whatever’s cleared for the exercise. Your objective is not to eliminate Ghost. It’s to capture him.”
Another recruit frowned. “What counts as him winning?”
Price smiled.
That should have been the first warning.
“If he marks you with paint,” Price said, “you’re dead. You leave the course.”
The recruits looked at Ghost again.
Ghost tilted his head.
“Try not to bunch up,” he said.
That should have been the second warning.
They bunched up.
The first round lasted seven minutes.
For the first two minutes, nothing happened. The recruits moved through the training compound in three teams of four, whispering into radios, checking corners, and looking impressively professional for people who were walking directly into disaster.
Soap watched from the observation deck with Price and Gaz. The monitors showed multiple angles of the compound: narrow corridors, stacked containers, mock offices, stairwells, catwalks, and a central open yard.
“Team Two has good spacing,” Gaz said.
Soap nodded. “Aye. Shame about Team One.”
“What’s wrong with Team One?”
On-screen, Team One entered a room with one door, two windows, and exactly zero good escape routes.
Soap winced. “That.”
A paint round cracked out of nowhere.
One recruit yelped as blue paint exploded across his vest.
Then another.
Then another.
The last recruit spun around, panicked, and fired wildly at the ceiling.
Ghost dropped from the rafters behind him and marked him between the shoulder blades.
Price took a sip of tea. “Team One eliminated.”
Gaz blinked. “He was in the rafters?”
Soap grinned. “He likes rafters.”
Gaz looked at him. “You say that like it’s normal.”
“For him? Aye.”
Team Three tried to flank.
Ghost was not where they thought he was.
He was where they were going.
He hit the first recruit from behind a stack of crates, vanished before the second could turn, circled through a side corridor, and marked the third recruit in the back of the knee when she crouched behind cover.
The fourth recruit threw a smoke canister and sprinted.
For three whole seconds, it looked like a good decision.
Then Ghost stepped out of the smoke directly in front of him.
The recruit made a noise Soap would remember forever.
Blue paint bloomed across his chest.
“Team Three eliminated,” Price said.
Gaz rubbed a hand over his mouth. “This is bullying.”
“This is education,” Price said.
Team Two lasted the longest.
They moved slowly. Carefully. They communicated. They checked overhead. They did not enter the obvious trap room. They avoided the central yard. One of them even noticed a tripwire Ghost had rigged with an empty can and a handful of loose bolts.
Soap was impressed.
Then one recruit whispered, “I think he’s avoiding us.”
Soap closed his eyes.
“Oh, mate,” Gaz said softly. “Never say that.”
Thirty seconds later, Ghost picked them apart one by one.
The first got marked through a gap beneath a stairwell.
The second got hit from behind a hanging tarp.
The third stepped into a doorway and found a little note taped to the wall.
It said: Boo.
He turned around too slowly.
Blue paint splattered his goggles.
The last recruit abandoned stealth entirely and charged toward the extraction point, apparently deciding that if she could not capture Ghost, she could at least survive him.
Ghost let her get within ten feet of the exit.
Then he shot her in the back.
The buzzer sounded.
Twelve recruits walked out of the compound covered in blue paint and deep emotional damage.
Ghost emerged last, not a single mark on him.
Soap leaned against the railing and clapped.
Ghost looked up at him.
“Very dramatic, LT.”
Ghost slung the paintball marker over one shoulder. “They bunched up.”
One recruit, still breathing hard, pulled off his helmet. “That’s impossible.”
Ghost turned his head slowly.
The recruit swallowed.
“I mean, respectfully, sir.”
Another recruit pointed at him. “He knows the course too well.”
A third said, “And he’s quiet.”
“And tall,” someone else added, as if that explained anything.
Gaz frowned. “How does being tall help?”
“It’s intimidating,” the recruit said.
Soap nodded seriously. “Aye. Terrible affliction.”
Ghost looked at him again.
Soap smiled.
Price set his mug down. “Right, then. Since the recruits believe the exercise is impossible, we’ll demonstrate.”
Gaz’s smile vanished. “We will?”
Price clapped him on the shoulder. “We will.”
Soap immediately brightened. “Oh, this’ll be good.”
Ghost’s eyes narrowed.
Price looked far too pleased with himself. “Three rounds. Gaz gets a team. Soap gets a team. I get a team. Same rules. Capture Ghost.”
Gaz stared at the compound. “I feel this is unfair.”
“To you?” Ghost asked.
Gaz pointed at him. “See, that. That tone. That’s why people think you’re a cryptid.”
Ghost said nothing.
Price divided the recruits into teams again. Gaz took four of them first, giving them a tight, practical briefing at the entrance.
“Listen up,” Gaz said. “He wants you scared. Don’t give him that. Keep comms clean. Watch high and low. Don’t chase shadows. If you see him, don’t rush him. Call position, box him in, and keep moving.”
One recruit nodded. “Yes, Sergeant.”
Gaz looked at Soap. “Any helpful advice?”
Soap considered. “Don’t bore him.”
Gaz stared. “That’s not helpful.”
“It is if ye think about it.”
Gaz did not think about it.
Gaz’s team lasted eleven minutes, which was, by all measures, impressive.
They did not bunch up. They did not panic. They almost cornered Ghost near the east corridor by using two recruits to cut off the stairwell and one to cover the yard.
Almost.
Ghost slipped through a maintenance hatch no one had noticed because, as Gaz later complained, “That is not a door, that is a crime.”
From there, he turned the ambush inside out.
He marked one recruit from behind a half-open window.
He baited another into firing at a helmet he had propped up on a crate.
He let Gaz get close enough to see the edge of his coat disappear around a corner, then punished him for following.
Gaz heard one soft footstep behind him.
He turned.
Ghost was already there.
Blue paint hit Gaz square in the chest.
Gaz looked down at it.
Then he looked at Ghost.
“I hate this exercise.”
Ghost’s eyes crinkled faintly behind the mask. “You did better than the recruits.”
“Do I get a prize?”
“No.”
Ghost marked the last recruit through a gap in a barricade thirty seconds later.
Buzzer.
Gaz came out of the compound covered in paint and betrayal.
Soap gave him a sympathetic pat on the arm.
Gaz shook him off. “Don’t.”
Soap grinned. “Eleven minutes is respectable.”
“He used a wall hole.”
“Walls are like doors if ye believe hard enough.”
Gaz pointed at him. “Your turn is coming.”
“Aye,” Soap said, looking down at the compound.
Ghost stood in the middle of the yard now, reloading his marker, calm as anything.
Soap’s smile softened.
“Aye,” he said again. “It is.”
Price went next.
That was different.
Where Gaz was quick and adaptive, Price was patient. He treated the exercise like a hunt. He took five recruits, spread them wide, and made Ghost work for every inch.
For the first ten minutes, no one fired.
The compound went quiet.
Too quiet.
Soap leaned on the railing, watching the monitors carefully. “Price is making him wait.”
Gaz nodded. “Smart.”
Soap hummed. “Maybe.”
Price knew Ghost well. Not the way Soap did, perhaps, but well enough to know he was patient, predatory, and most dangerous when people rushed.
So Price did not rush.
He pushed slowly inward, section by section, controlling exits, forcing Ghost away from his preferred routes. He gave orders in a low voice, calm and clean.
For a while, it worked.
One recruit got eyes on Ghost near the western catwalk and did not chase. Another cut off the stairs. A third held the courtyard entrance. Price moved in from the south.
For one shining moment, they had him boxed.
Then Ghost did something very Ghost.
He went up.
Not to the catwalk.
Not to the rafters.
Up the outside of a stacked container like gravity was a suggestion he found personally offensive.
One recruit saw him climb and shouted.
Price looked up just in time to see Ghost drop a smoke canister directly between them.
The yard vanished.
Paint rounds cracked through the smoke.
One recruit out.
Then another.
Then silence.
Price moved through the smoke slowly, marker raised.
Ghost appeared to his left.
Price fired.
The round hit a hanging jacket Ghost had tossed across a pipe.
Price’s expression went flat.
Ghost stepped out behind him.
Blue paint splashed across the back of Price’s vest.
For a moment, nobody spoke.
Then Price turned around.
Ghost said, “Captain.”
Price looked at the paint on his shoulder, then back at Ghost.
“Cheeky bastard.”
“Yes, sir.”
The buzzer sounded after Ghost marked the last recruit hiding behind a stack of tires.
Price walked out with dignity, which was impressive considering the blue paint dripping down his back.
Soap clapped again.
Price pointed at him. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”
“Aye, sir.”
Gaz leaned closer. “Still think you can win?”
Soap looked at Ghost.
Ghost was standing alone at the compound entrance, paintball marker resting against his shoulder. His mask tilted slightly toward them, but Soap knew he was looking at him. Waiting.
Testing.
Soap felt a little thrill go through him.
Because everyone else had tried to catch Ghost like Ghost was a problem to solve.
Soap knew better.
Ghost was not a problem.
Ghost was a person.
A difficult, sharp-edged, terrifyingly competent person who always checked exits first. Who favored high ground when annoyed. Who went silent when cornered but sarcastic when comfortable. Who always moved left when given two equal routes because his right knee sometimes stiffened after long missions. Who could ignore gunfire but would turn his head at Soap’s voice every single time.
Soap picked up his marker.
Gaz watched him carefully. “You’ve got a plan.”
Soap smiled. “Aye.”
Price raised an eyebrow. “Care to share?”
“No.”
Ghost’s voice came over the speaker from the compound. “Scared, Johnny?”
Soap’s grin widened.
Gaz looked between them. “Oh, this is going to be unbearable.”
Soap chose only three recruits.
Price frowned. “You can take five.”
“Don’t need five.”
The recruits looked alarmed by this confidence.
Soap gathered them near the entrance and spoke quietly.
“Right. First thing ye need to know: you’re not catching him.”
One recruit blinked. “Sergeant?”
“You’re bait.”
Their faces fell.
Soap smiled kindly. “Important bait.”
Gaz laughed from behind him.
Soap ignored him. “He expects a hunt. So we give him one. Make noise. Move in patterns. Let him think I’m using you badly.”
One recruit raised a hand. “Are you using us badly?”
“Aye,” Soap said. “But with affection.”
That did not seem to reassure them.
Soap continued. “When he marks you, go out clean. No complaining. No heroic last stands. I need him comfortable.”
Another recruit frowned. “Comfortable?”
“Aye. Ghost is most dangerous when cornered. But when he thinks he’s already won?”
Soap glanced toward the compound.
“That’s when he gets smug.”
Gaz muttered, “This is either genius or flirting.”
Price said, “With them, it’s usually both.”
The round began.
Soap’s recruits entered first and immediately made every mistake Soap had told them to make.
They communicated too much. They moved too loudly. They checked corners in ways that were almost right but not quite. They left gaps. They doubled back obviously. They let themselves be seen.
Ghost took the invitation.
He marked the first recruit in less than three minutes.
The second made it to five.
The third, bless him, managed to fire two rounds in Ghost’s general direction before getting tagged on the shoulder.
That left Soap alone.
The buzzer did not sound because Soap was still alive.
For the first time all day, the compound went very quiet.
Gaz leaned forward over the railing.
Price crossed his arms.
Inside the course, Ghost vanished.
Soap did not chase him.
He stood in the middle of the mock office corridor, marker held loosely in one hand, and called out, “That all ye’ve got, LT?”
No answer.
Soap smiled to himself.
Ghost hated obvious bait.
Which meant he would ignore it.
Which meant he would assume Soap knew he would ignore it.
Which meant Ghost would take the route that let him observe Soap without engaging.
Which meant—
Soap turned, walked calmly into a side room, and shut the door behind him.
On the observation deck, Gaz blinked. “What’s he doing?”
Price’s eyes narrowed. “Waiting.”
Gaz looked at another monitor. “For what?”
Price’s mouth twitched. “For Ghost.”
Inside the room, Soap crouched behind a battered desk and listened.
Not for footsteps.
Ghost barely made those.
He listened for absence.
The compound had a rhythm when Ghost moved through it. Tiny things changed. Air shifted. A loose chain settled. Distant boards gave under weight and then stilled. Most people listened for sound.
Soap listened for where sound had stopped.
There.
Above him.
Not in the rafters this time.
The service crawlspace.
Soap looked up very slowly.
A ceiling panel shifted almost imperceptibly.
Soap bit back a grin.
Of course.
Ghost was going to drop behind him, mark him clean, and then be insufferable about it for three days.
Soap moved before the panel opened fully.
Not away.
Toward.
He climbed onto the desk, then onto a filing cabinet, careful and quick, using the noise outside from a rattling loose sign to cover the movement. He reached the wall vent just as Ghost eased the ceiling panel open across the room.
Soap slipped into the crawlspace.
Ghost dropped down into the office below.
Silent.
Perfect.
Wrong room.
Soap watched from above, barely breathing.
Ghost scanned the office, marker raised.
The door was still shut. The desk was empty. The filing cabinet slightly ajar.
Ghost paused.
Soap could almost hear him thinking.
Then Ghost’s head tilted.
Slowly.
Suspiciously.
He looked up.
Soap was already moving.
He dropped from the crawlspace behind Ghost, landing badly enough that his knee protested but quietly enough that Ghost only had half a second to turn.
Soap did not shoot him.
That would have been too easy, and also Ghost would argue about range, angle, and dishonor until the end of time.
Instead, Soap lunged and wrapped both arms around him from behind.
Ghost went still.
Soap pressed the barrel of the paintball marker gently against Ghost’s vest, right over the center of his chest.
“Captured,” Soap said, breathless and delighted.
For one perfect second, there was absolute silence.
Then the buzzer sounded.
The observation deck exploded.
Gaz shouted, “No way!”
The recruits cheered like Soap had just defeated a dragon.
Price laughed, deep and rough and delighted. “I’ll be damned.”
Ghost did not move.
Soap, still clinging to his back, grinned so hard his face hurt.
“Got ye.”
Ghost looked down at the arms wrapped around his chest.
Then, very calmly, he said, “You’re supposed to shoot the target.”
Soap rested his chin briefly against Ghost’s shoulder. “Brief said capture.”
“You were in the ceiling.”
“So were you.”
“That’s different.”
“Aye. I won.”
Ghost turned his head slightly. His mask brushed Soap’s temple.
Soap could feel the tension in him, but not anger. Not really.
Something else.
Reluctant amusement.
Fond irritation.
The particular brand of suffering that Soap seemed uniquely able to cause.
“You used yourself as bait,” Ghost said.
“Worked, didn’t it?”
“You let your team die.”
“They died bravely.”
“They died loudly.”
“Bravely and loudly.”
Ghost huffed.
Soap finally released him and stepped back, still smiling.
Ghost turned around.
There was blue paint on almost everyone outside the course. None on Ghost. Not one mark.
Except Soap’s marker was still pressed lightly to his vest.
Soap raised his eyebrows.
Ghost looked down at it.
Then back at him.
“Go on, then,” Ghost said.
Soap’s smile softened.
He pulled the trigger.
Blue paint bloomed across Ghost’s chest.
The recruits cheered even louder.
Gaz looked personally betrayed by physics. “He let him do that.”
Price’s eyebrows rose. “He absolutely did.”
Ghost stepped out of the office with Soap beside him, the blue mark bright against his dark gear.
The recruits gathered near the exit, staring at Soap like he had achieved the impossible.
“How did you do that?” one asked.
Soap opened his mouth.
Ghost answered first.
“He pays attention.”
Soap looked at him.
Ghost’s eyes held his for a second too long.
Then he added, “Annoyingly.”
Soap grinned. “That’s praise, coming from you.”
“It’s a diagnosis.”
Gaz crossed his arms. “So just to be clear, none of us could catch you, Price couldn’t catch you, I couldn’t catch you, but Soap could?”
Ghost looked at Gaz.
Then he looked at Soap, who was still smiling like sunshine after a firefight.
Ghost said, “Soap cheats.”
“I strategize.”
“You flirted with the target.”
“That was part of the strategy.”
A recruit whispered, “Can we do that?”
Ghost’s head snapped toward him.
“No.”
Soap burst out laughing.
Price clapped his hands once. “Right. Lesson learned.”
Gaz snorted. “What lesson? Become Soap?”
Price glanced at Ghost’s blue-stained vest, then at Soap’s pleased expression, then at the recruits still looking between them in awe.
“The lesson,” Price said dryly, “is that Ghost can be beaten.”
Ghost gave him a flat look.
Price’s mouth twitched.
“By exactly one person.”
Soap leaned closer to Ghost and lowered his voice. “Hear that, LT? I’m special.”
Ghost looked down at him.
For once, he did not deny it.
He only reached out, flicked a bit of blue paint from his vest onto Soap’s cheek, and said, “You’re cleaning this off.”
Soap wiped at his cheek, laughing. “Aye, alright.”
“And you’re banned from the ceiling.”
“Ye cannae ban me from ceilings.”
“I can.”
“You were in the ceiling first.”
“Operational necessity.”
“So was mine.”
Ghost stared at him.
Soap stared back.
Around them, recruits exchanged looks of dawning understanding.
Gaz groaned. “They’re going to argue about ceiling rights all day, aren’t they?”
Price picked up his tea. “Probably.”
Ghost turned away, heading for the gear room.
Soap followed immediately.
“You know,” Soap said, “technically, since I captured ye, I should get a prize.”
“No.”
“A trophy?”
“No.”
“Bragging rights?”
“You already have those.”
“A kiss on the cheek?”
Ghost stopped walking.
The hallway went silent.
Soap froze.
Behind them, Gaz made a strangled sound. Price very deliberately looked away. Every recruit suddenly discovered something fascinating about the floor, the wall, or their own boots.
Ghost turned his head slowly.
Soap cleared his throat. “Joking.”
Ghost stepped closer.
Soap’s ears went pink.
Ghost leaned down until his voice was low enough that only Soap could hear.
“Win twice,” he said, “and we’ll talk.”
Then he walked away.
Soap stood there for a full three seconds.
Gaz stared at him. “Soap?”
Soap slowly smiled.
“Oh,” he said.
Price sighed. “God help us.”
From down the hall, Ghost called, “I heard that.”
Soap grabbed his marker and turned toward the recruits with sudden, terrifying enthusiasm.
“Right, lads,” he said brightly. “Who wants to help me plan round two?”
Every recruit took one step back.
Gaz put his head in his hands.
And somewhere around the corner, hidden from view, Ghost smiled beneath the mask.