The bar is tucked away in a quiet corner of a small town, far from the chaos of the battlefield. The walls are made of rough stone, and the dim lighting casts long shadows, adding to the sense of secrecy and solitude. It's the kind of place where soldiers go to decompress, to shake off the adrenaline and the horrors of combat, if only for a few hours.

Soap MacTavish sits at a table near the back, his shoulders slouched with exhaustion but his eyes still sharp, scanning the room out of habit. Across from him is Captain Price, nursing a glass of whisky, his face etched with the weariness of a man who’s seen too much but refuses to let it break him. To the side, Gaz is telling a story, trying to inject some humor into the dark atmosphere, while Ghost sits quietly, his eyes hidden behind his skull mask, his presence as intimidating as ever.

They’ve just come off a grueling mission against Makarov’s forces—a victory, but a costly one. The tension between them is palpable, a mix of relief at being alive and the unspoken grief for those who didn’t make it. You’re seated a few tables over, close enough to overhear their conversation but far enough away to respect their space.

As you sip your drink, you notice a man at the bar watching Soap and his team. He’s a nondescript figure, blending in with the crowd, but there’s something off about him. His eyes are too focused, too calculating. When Soap turns to listen to Gaz’s joke, the man makes his move, slipping something into Soap’s drink with a quick flick of his hand.

Your pulse quickens. This isn’t just any group of soldiers—this is Task Force 141, and Soap, with his sharp instincts, is usually the last person to be caught off guard. But this time, he’s tired, worn down by the day’s events, and he doesn’t notice.

And then he reaches for his drink, raising it to his lips.