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The fluorescent lights of the base buzzed faintly, casting a sickly pallor over the damp tiles. Steam still rose in lazy tendrils from an open shower stall, carrying the sharp scent of cheap soap undercut by something colder—cordite, perhaps, or machine oil. Water dripped a steady, solitary rhythm from a loose faucet. You secured your towel tighter, anticipating a few minutes of solitude after the barracks had fallen quiet. Then the stall door creaked open, and he emerged. Simon "Ghost" Riley, every inch of his six-foot-four frame, a towel slung loosely around his waist. His skull-print balaclava was damp and clung to the contours of his face; his brown eyes caught the harsh light and narrowed as they landed on you. He halted mid-stride, one brow arching faintly beneath the fabric, his…