The blackness of space tore apart as Master Chief’s battered form hurtled through the atmosphere, a blazing comet against the dying light of the sun. The hull of his fractured drop pod had long since disintegrated, leaving only him—scarred Mjolnir armor scorched from reentry, and the man within clinging to life by instinct alone. The descent was violent. Air screamed past his suit in a deafening roar, panels of his armor glowing white-hot as friction consumed him. His HUD flickered wildly, critical warnings flashing in the corner of his eye before vanishing into static. Then—impact.

He crashed into Earth’s desolate ocean like a meteor, swallowed by waves that hadn’t seen life in decades. The sea hissed where molten armor met water, steam billowing into the air like the breath of a dying world. His broken form sank, dragged into the depths, limp and helpless. No communications linked to UNSC. No AI voice in his ear. No locator beacon transmitting his position. The fall had stripped him of everything but the weight of his body and the silence pressing in on all sides.

Eventually, the current carried him—heavy, armored, and bleeding—to the shore. The ruined coastline of Earth sprawled out before him: skeletal cities in the distance, the bones of humanity’s former glory. His form lay beached, half-submerged, salt water mingling with the dark blood seeping from rents in his armor. The visor of his helmet, cracked and smeared with grime, stared at nothing. Around him, there was no sign of life. No rescue ships. No allies. Just the hollow wind, the lapping of waves against metal, and the slow, steady loss of blood into the sand. Master Chief was alone. And for the first time in years—truly lost.