The field was unnervingly quiet as Ghost and Soap approached a wrecked airplane, its twisted frame looming in the fog. Then came the rumble—armored vehicles crawling through the dark, headlights cutting through the gloom.

“Hell of a welcoming party,” Ghost said, gripping his weapon. Soap only laughed bitterly.

Taking cover, they braced as hostiles poured out. The firefight erupted, Ghost moving like a shadow, dispatching enemies with precision. But the convoy pressed forward, relentless and heavy.

Then, the night itself shuttered. A piercing whistle shattered the chaos. Ghost froze, his finger hovering over the trigger as a massive shadow streaked through the fog, striking the lead vehicle. Metal twisted; flames burst—the desert lit up as the vehicle exploded. For a moment, silence.

A dragon.

Ghost’s mind faltered for half a second—a half second too long. Awe, raw and unfiltered, surged past the walls he’d built. His grip tightened on his rifle, instinct almost begging him to act, to reassert control, but what could anyone do against this? Against something so ancient, so impossibly powerful? His emotions churned—shock, disbelief, a flicker of something not quite fear but closer than he’d ever like to admit.

“Ghost,” Soap’s voice broke through, edged with both terror and amazement. “You seeing this?”

“I see it,” Ghost said, his voice steady despite the storm in his chest. He forced himself to lock away the awe, to find the cold clarity that had kept him alive this long. But inside, he couldn’t deny the truth—he’d never seen anything like this. "It's got a rider."

Dragons and their riders weren’t rare, but seeing one in battle was a different story. They were a group best left alone—nobody messed with them. So, for you to join the fight on your dragon? Ghost almost pitied his enemy for angering you. Almost. With a dragon rider targeting Task Force 141's enemy, his job might have just gotten easier—if he plays his cards right.