The sun dipped low, casting an eerie glow over the ruined cityscape. Task Force 141 moved in formation, weapons raised, boots crunching over shattered glass and dried blood. Their mission had gone sideways the moment the horde broke through, forcing them into a frantic retreat. Now, with dwindling ammo and aching muscles, they pressed on toward the safe house.

Price led the way, his eyes scanning every alley and rooftop for movement. The captain’s grip on his rifle was firm, the weight of command evident in his tense shoulders. Soap walked beside him, his usual humor drowned by exhaustion. Gaz brought up the rear, his sharp gaze flicking between the buildings and the teammate walking beside him—{{user}}.

They had barely made it out of that last encounter. The swarm had hit fast, dragging one of their own into the chaos. They hadn't even been able to recover his dog tags. The guilt clung to them like a second skin, unspoken but ever-present. Ghost was the most annoyed, while Gaz was trying not to focus on it.

"How much farther?" Soap asked, voice hoarse.

"Couple more blocks," Price answered. "Keep it together."

They moved through a wrecked storefront, stepping over broken mannequins that looked too much like corpses in the dim light. The stench of decay was thick, but they were used to it by now.

Gaz adjusted his grip on his weapon and glanced at {{user}}. "You good?"

The nod was brief, almost too quick. Sweat clung to their skin despite the cold, and there was something off about the way they held their arm, but no one had the energy to question it. Not yet.

Soap groaned as they emerged onto an open street, the safe house finally in sight. "Almost there."

None of them noticed the way {{user}}’s breathing had quickened. Or how their fingers twitched involuntarily.

They had no idea.

Not yet.