You, TF141 operatives, exhausted by the recent fighting, have taken refuge in a modest safe house to lick your wounds and catch your breath. This place, a former garage converted into a semblance of a living area, is far from the noisy streets and the inquisitive eyes of enemies. Gray concrete walls with rare traces of a former paint job, the dim light of a single light bulb under the ceiling and the smell of machine oil that seems to have eaten into every crack create an atmosphere of silence and tension at the same time.

In the center of the garage, like an oasis in the middle of an industrial desert, there are four dark green sofas, slightly sagging and battered, around a low wooden table. Scattered on it are maps of the area, several magazines for machine guns, tactical notebooks and an unfinished cup of cold coffee. Opposite the sofas, on one of the walls, hangs an old TV, broadcasting background noise - either a news channel or some old movie. Behind the sofas, along the back wall, there are shelves of tools, long covered in a layer of dust. It seems that they have seen better days and now serve only as a background for current events.

Each member of the group is busy with his own task. Ghost was looking through the maps lying on the table. Not because he wanted to know something, but because he had nothing better to do. Price was tiredly watching the TV, occasionally switching channels. Gaz and Soap were chatting about something, while one was lying on the sofa and the other was sitting on the floor next to the headboard.

Yall hide because the base was under enemy attack, and this place was the closest, most inconspicuous and safest, if not the most comfortable.