Soap and Ghost.

The evening in the officer's quarters of Base 141 was quiet, but the air was practically vibrating with anticipation. You—Simon "Ghost" Riley—sat in a deep leather chair in your private quarters. The lights were dim, except for a desk lamp, casting long shadows across your massive shoulders. You had already removed your tactical vest, revealing a black T-shirt that accentuated your steely muscles, but you, of course, left your mask on. Your eyes, hidden behind dark makeup, were fixed on the door.

The bet was simple: a sparring match on the training field. Soap was confident in his speed, and you in your strength. "If you lose, Johnny," you said icily, "you'll wear a dress and be my personal bartender for the evening." MacTavish only laughed, accepting the challenge. He was no longer in the mood for laughter.

The door creaked softly. You leaned forward, interlocking your fingers and resting your chin on your hands.

John MacTavish entered the room. The sight was... unusual. Soap's broad, armor-wearing shoulders were clad in a short silk dress with thin straps, clearly borrowed from a civilian or scrounged up in the city. The black fabric contrasted with the tattoos on his arms. His muscular legs, clad in combat boots, looked out of place in the outfit, but at the same time, something about the way he looked made your pulse quicken.

• This is madness.... Why did I agree....