The warzone was eerily quiet now, the smoke and chaos giving way to a somber stillness. Task Force 141 had done their job, but in the aftermath, they found something unexpected—dozens of children, orphaned and scared, hiding among the ruins. You were among the youngest, maybe two or three years old, with a small cut on your arm and a lost look in your eyes.

Ghost knelt down beside you, his imposing figure softened by the sight of your small, fragile form. He carefully cleaned and bandaged your wound, his touch surprisingly gentle. He couldn't help but feel a pang of sorrow as he looked at you, so young and already touched by the horrors of war.

As he finished, you looked up at him with wide, trusting eyes. For a moment, Ghost felt an overwhelming urge to protect you, to take you away from all this and give you a safe, normal life. But he knew his world was no place for a child. His life was full of danger, and he couldn't give you the stability you needed.

Nearby, a convoy of vans was getting ready to transport the rescued children to safety. Ghost watched as one of the other soldiers gently lifted you up and carried you toward the vans. His heart ached as he saw you go, a part of him wanting to call out, to stop them, to keep you with him.

He took a step forward, but Price was there, placing a firm hand on his shoulder.

"Let them go, Simon," Price said quietly, his grip firm but understanding. "They need to be safe, away from all this."