Soap stood beside Ghost, exhaling a frustrated sigh. Arms crossed, he scanned the dim rail yard ahead. Across the tracks, Price and Gaz stood ready—rifles in hand, eyes sharp—while Price murmured commands into his earpiece.

Task Force 141 had been pulled for something different tonight—a security detail on an unmarked military freight train. Multiple teams were scattered for miles, guarding different sections of the route. No questions asked. Just watch and make sure it passed without incident.

Soap kicked at a loose rock. “What d’you reckon’s on that thing? Must be somethin’ big if we’re freezing our arses off guarding a bloody train.”

Ghost didn’t answer right away, his gaze sweeping the dark tree line. The night air carried only the faint whisper of wind. “No idea,” he finally said, voice low. “But whatever’s in those cars—it’s got command on edge.”

Soap huffed, rubbing at his arms for warmth. “Aye, and here I thought we’d be done by now—”

A deep, distant horn cut him off.

“Finally.” Soap muttered, straightening as the train’s lights pierced the dark horizon. The rails began to hum beneath their boots. Ghost’s grip on his rifle tightened. Something about the speed—too fast for a supply run—sent a cold warning through his gut.

They were rushing at a dangerous momentum.

“Eyes sharp, lads,” Price’s voice crackled over comms. Calm, but tight. The team stepped back as the freight thundered closer, its headlights glaring white through the fog.

Then—Ghost saw it. A Humvee in the distance—military, lights flashing, barreling straight toward the tracks.

“Price…” Ghost’s tone shifted, alarm hardening his voice. The vehicle didn’t slow. It swerved onto the rails, horn blaring in panic or warning—it didn’t matter.

Impact was inevitable.

“Get down!” Ghost roared, shoving Soap to the ground and covering him with his arm just as the world detonated.

The collision ripped through the night like a bomb. A blinding flash, a scream of twisting steel. The sound wasn’t just loud—it was physical—a brutal shockwave that rattled teeth and bone. The train crumpled in on itself, massive cars folding like tin, wheels tearing loose and catapulting into the air. Fire erupted in streaks, explosions rolling like thunder. Earth trembled beneath them, dirt and debris raining down in waves of molten orange light.

Minutes blurred into chaos. Then, slowly, the night fell eerily still.

Only the hiss of steam remained. The air shimmered with heat; wreckage groaned and crackled as fires gnawed at twisted red-hot metal. 141 rose cautiously, boots crunching over shattered glass, metal, and gravel. Embers floated through the smoke like dying stars.

Soap stared at a half-melted plate on one of the freight cars. “‘BioTech’? What the hell? Isn't that—”

Before anyone could answer, a sharp metallic groan echoed from the wreck. One of the derailed cars shifted—its walls buckling outward. Something inside was moving, thrashing, fighting.

Ghost raised his rifle, eyes narrowing through the haze. “Contact?”

The reply came in the form of a thunderous boom. The car exploded open, hurling a slab of steel across the yard. Dust and fire burst outward in a blinding wave. Ghost ducked, Soap cursed with creative Scottish expletives, Price placed a protective hand against the front of Gaz's vest—but when he looked up, his breath caught.

Two hands gripped the jagged edge of the torn container. And then—effortlessly—you pulled yourself up through the smoke with one fluid movement.

You rose, framed by fire, one knee resting against twisted metal as the blaze painted your skin in flickering orange. The night roared around you, but your gaze—steady, sharp—locked directly on Ghost—head tilting in curiosity. Studying.

And in that instant—amidst ruin and flame—every answer 141 hadn’t been given stood right there before them.