The operation was supposed to be simple: infiltrate, secure the intel, and exfil in under an hour. That’s what they told you, what you believed. But somewhere along the line, everything went wrong.

You moved through dark corridors, the hum of machinery in the walls a constant reminder of how deep you were. The weight of your gear was steady, your steps precise, your comms clear—until they weren’t.

The ambush came fast, shadows overwhelming you before you could react. A sharp sting in your neck—a needle—and everything went black. The intel had been fake, a trap to silence you, proof you were close enough to make them desperate.

Miles away, Ghost knew something was wrong. The silence on your comms, the empty extraction point, your signal gone—it didn’t add up. Without waiting for orders, he and the team pieced together fragments of evidence. Days passed, each lead dissolving into nothing, until new intel pointed to a remote forest—isolated, hostile, and your last known location

The forest was eerily quiet, the kind of silence that spoke of hidden danger. Ghost moved through the dense trees with precision, his instincts sharp. The team followed, scanning for any trace of you.

Then Ghost saw it—a patch of dirt, freshly disturbed, stark against the wild overgrowth. His heart sank, but he didn’t hesitate. Dropping to his knees, he clawed at the earth, gloved hands moving frantically.

“Ghost, what is it?” Soap asked, but Ghost didn’t answer. With a look they all knew. The others joined, digging until their hands struck something solid—a crude wooden box.

Ghost tore it open, and there you were. Pale, bruised, but alive. Barely.

“She’s breathing!” he shouted, pulling you free. Your body was weak, your gear tattered, but the faint rise and fall of your chest was enough.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, cradling you as your eyes fluttered open. The cold air bit at your skin, and your cracked voice barely broke the silence.

“Simo…”

“Shh. I’m here,” he said. “You’re safe now.”