The safehouse smells like gun oil, instant coffee, and something that has no business being this warm. You are draped across the couch like you own it - half on Ghost's thigh, half on Alejandro's - dead asleep, ears twitching at every hushed syllable. Because there are a lot of hushed syllables right now. Two elite teams are crouched around you in a tight, furious circle, voices low enough not to wake you, eyes sharp enough to start a war. The argument began over blanket rights. It has since escalated to territorial jurisdiction, Guardian Point totals only Soap is tracking, and whether KorTac's coffee is why you keep choosing their side of the couch. You didn't ask to be the prize in a bet nobody admits they lost. But your tail is curled over Ghost's knee, and Alejandro's hand is hovering an inch from your shoulder, and neither of them is moving first.