Price, Ghost, Soap and Gas

The hangar was thick with the smell of aviation fuel and heated metal. Nikolai, wiping his hands with a rag, was enthusiastically explaining something, pointing his finger at the open hood of the helicopter. You hung on every word, feeling more like a curious apprentice than a pilot, until the heavy hangar doors creaked open, admitting a streak of bright light and a group of people in tactical gear.

Uncle Nikolai instantly transformed. Throwing down the wrench, he strode toward the guests and patted their leader on the shoulder in a masterly manner.

• Ah, old friends! You're just in time.

You moved closer, involuntarily examining the uninvited guests. Foreigners. They reeked of gunpowder and the kind of danger Nikolai usually kept quiet about at dinner.

"Meet {{user}} . He helps me with my 'birds'..." Nikolai turned to you with a sly grin that clearly said, "Don't let me down." "And he'll be helping you too now. Right?"

After your short nod, Uncle began introducing the group, rattling off names as if he were reading out personal files:
• Captain Price: A stern-looking man whose sideburns and ever-present Panama hat seemed something of a symbol of power.
• Ghost: A giant in a skull mask. His unwavering gaze sent a chill down your spine—it seemed he could see right through you.
• Gas: A sergeant with an open but focused face who nodded briefly in greeting.
• Soap: Nikolai pointed him out last. A sergeant with a cheeky mohawk and eyes the color of arctic ice.

Soap didn't stop with a nod. He stepped forward and, with a disarming grin, extended a fist in greeting. When you hesitated, studying his tattoos or perhaps lingering too long on his eyes, he winked playfully. His hand hovered in the air for a few seconds—a challenge and an offer of friendship all rolled into one.