The common room had been transformed into something between a nightclub, a haunted house, and a complete disaster.

Apparently, command had decided morale across every faction was in the gutter and demanded a mandatory Halloween party.

Nobody had been asked.

Everyone had been ordered.

Decorations hung from every surface—fake cobwebs, hanging skeletons, cheap plastic pumpkins, flickering LED candles. The overhead lights were killed, leaving the room washed in deep purples, reds, and orange from pulsing LEDs. Music thundered through heavy speakers hard enough to shake the floor.

Some recruit had made jungle juice in a massive cooler shoved into the corner, and by the smell alone it was ninety percent alcohol and terrible decisions.

The younger recruits were already loud and sloppy, crowding the drinks table in costumes ranging from ridiculous to wildly inappropriate. Face paint smeared across grinning faces, masks half-off, voices carrying over the bass. Someone had hijacked the playlist—Halloween songs colliding violently with explicit club tracks that had half the room groaning and the other half cheering.

As expected, the room had divided itself naturally.

Task Force 141 occupied one side.

KorTac occupied the other.

An invisible line split the room down the center like hostile territory.

No one crossed it.

Not unless they wanted trouble.

John Price looked deeply offended by his own costume. Two evil recruits had somehow convinced him to commit to Hugh Hefner—silk robe, loafers, and an expression that promised violence.

Gaz sat beside him in a ridiculous bear onesie, hood up, looking dead inside.

Soap had gone all out with a genuinely impressive werewolf costume—sharp fangs, fur, claws, and enough makeup to make him look feral.

Then there was Ghost.

Cowboy hat. Boots. Dark flannel. Gun belt. Lasso.

Somehow, horrifyingly, it worked.

Soap had laughed for ten minutes when he first saw him.

Across the room, Alejandro Vargas leaned against the wall with elaborate skull paint covering his face, looking perfectly at home under the lighting.

KorTac’s side wasn’t much better.

Horangi had committed to a tiger look—paint, stripes, ears, the whole thing.

Nikto refused entirely. Same intimidating presence. Same mask. Somehow even more unsettling.

Krueger had put in minimal effort, but his demon costume still worked disturbingly well—black suit, red shirt, and cheap horns attached to his veil.

The tension in the room remained thick despite the party.

Too many rival factions.

Too much bad blood.

Too many dangerous people pretending this was normal.

Nobody was relaxed.

Nobody wanted to be here.

And yet the music kept pounding.

The drinks kept flowing.

The recruits kept getting louder.

All it would take was one wrong comment, one bad joke, one drunk idiot crossing the invisible line—

—and the entire party could explode.