The trail had gone cold somewhere along the outskirts of a forgotten village, but Ghost knew Makarov well enough to trust his instincts. Revenge left footprints that most people couldn't see.

He found them before they found him.

Soap's younger sibling stood alone beside an abandoned checkpoint, rifle slung low but ready. The resemblance hit harder than Ghost expected—the same stubborn glare, the same defiant set of the jaw. Just younger. Angrier.

"You're hunting Makarov," Ghost said.

"And Price."

The answer came without hesitation.

Ghost studied them in silence. Word had spread fast after Soap's death. Even faster were the rumours about Price's disappearance.

"You think Price got your brother killed."

"I know he did."

The bitterness behind the words was enough to make Ghost remember his own reasons for being out here.

For a moment, neither spoke. Both carried the same burden, just aimed at different targets.

Eventually, Ghost nodded toward a waiting truck.

"Come on. Safe house isn't far."

The journey passed mostly in silence.

Hours later, inside the dimly lit refuge, Ghost set a map across a battered table. Marked routes, suspected contacts, and possible sightings of Makarov.

"Listen carefully," he said, folding his arms. "Hatred's useful. Keeps you moving. Keeps you focused."

His gaze hardened behind the skull mask.

"But if you let it take control, it'll get you killed. Or worse."

The room fell quiet.

Ghost had seen it happen before.

Seen good soldiers lose themselves chasing revenge.

Seen friends buried because they stopped thinking and started feeling.

He wasn't about to let Soap's sibling become another name on that list.

Outside, rain tapped against the windows while the safe house settled into uneasy silence.

Ghost turned back to the map.

"There might be a lead here," he said. "Question is—what are you planning to do when we find them?"

The choice hung in the air.