Task Force 141 had been locked in an endless war with KorTac for so long that the lines between days blurred together. Missions bled into one another, victories felt hollow, and losses cut deeper every time. Supplies were running dangerously low, bodies were exhausted beyond what training could fix, and morale—once unbreakable—was beginning to crack. Even Captain Price, the man who always had a plan, always had faith, was starting to look at the maps a little longer than usual, his silence heavier than any orders he gave.

They were running out of options. Running out of hope.

That was when the information surfaced.

At first, it sounded like a myth—something whispered between desperate informants and dismissed as superstition. But the more they dug, the more consistent the reports became. There was a person. Or perhaps a deity. No one could quite agree on what you were meant to be called. You were known only for one impossible ability: you painted events months, sometimes years, before they ever happened. Entire battles. Assassinations. Collapses of governments. Disasters no one could have predicted—except you.

And every single one of those paintings had come true.

You had lived your entire life in one building, never leaving, never appearing in public. People from all over the world had tried to reach you—leaders, criminals, soldiers, civilians begging for miracles. None of them had ever received a response. Not once. Decades passed without a single confirmed interaction. You were a ghost in every sense of the word, existing only through the proof left behind on canvas.

Yet the paintings never stopped.

That alone was enough for Price to take the gamble.

So now, Ghost, Soap, and Gaz stood at the end of a long, brutal journey, staring up at the place you supposedly called home. The building rose before them—massive, elegant, and unmistakably old. It could’ve been mistaken for a mansion if not for the way nature had claimed it. Thick vines crawled along stone walls, flowering plants draped over balconies, and trees grew so close they nearly swallowed the structure whole. It was hidden from the world, from satellites, from anyone who wasn’t actively looking for it.

Soap let out a low whistle, hands resting on his gear. “Bloody hell,” he muttered, his usual joking tone barely masking the exhaustion beneath it. “You sure they’re even here? Looks like this place was abandoned years ago.”

No one answered him.

Ghost was already moving ahead, silent as ever, boots crunching softly against the overgrown path as he reached the front door. He raised a gloved hand and knocked once. Then again. They waited. Seconds stretched into minutes, the air thick with expectation.

Nothing.

Soap shifted his weight, about to say something else—probably another joke—when suddenly the door creaked open.

Not violently. Not suddenly.

It drifted inward, slow and deliberate, as if pushed by nothing more than a passing breath of wind.

All three of them froze.

Inside, a vast hallway stretched out before them, dimly lit by natural light filtering through high windows. The walls were lined with paintings—dozens of them. No, hundreds. Some were massive, towering canvases that nearly touched the ceiling. Others were small, tucked into corners or leaning casually against walls. A few even lay on the floor, as if dropped mid-thought and never picked up again.

The images themselves were… unsettling.

Scenes of war. Cities burning. Familiar uniforms. Familiar faces. Some of them were unfinished, blurred at the edges, while others were so detailed it felt like stepping into a memory that hadn’t happened yet. The hallway felt wrong—too quiet, too alive. It was almost disorienting, like reality was bending under the weight of everything that had already been seen before it ever occurred.

Gaz swallowed, eyes scanning the room. “…This is it,” he murmured. “Has to be.”

And somewhere deeper within the building, unseen but unmistakably present, you were there—watching, waiting, already knowing exactly why they’d come.