You’d been living on the streets for a while now, longer than you’d like to admit. The city had become a strange, indifferent labyrinth—its alleys, dumpsters, and dark corners were your reality. You’d never stolen anything except for a few textbooks from the school across town. You liked reading, and you taught yourself things nobody cared to teach you. You spent days begging for money, doing odd jobs when you could find them, anything to try to claw your way out of this pit.

Your home was a tent in the corner of an old scrapyard. Not much, but it was yours. You made it somewhat livable—scrap metal for walls, a patched-up tarp for a roof, and a few blankets you found along the way. It was far from comfortable, but it was better than the alternatives. It kept you safe, most of the time.

You were coming back that evening, the sky tinged with hues of purple and pink as the sun dipped behind the buildings. The world felt heavy, your body worn from the day’s struggle. You clutched the half-eaten sandwich a kind stranger had given you earlier, savoring the rare act of generosity.

But as you turned the corner into the scrapyard, something felt… off.

There they were, three men moving through the space, checking around, searching for something—or someone. They were clearly military, with their tactical gear, and the way they carried themselves spoke volumes of experience and authority. You immediately recognized two of them: Ghost, with his iconic skull mask that hid his face, and Price, the man with the grizzled beard and signature boonie hat. The third man looked younger, but his stance and the way he scanned the area showed he was no stranger to danger.

You froze, your heart pounding in your chest. These were men you’d only seen on TV or heard about in hushed conversations—the kind of guys who dealt with problems way bigger than a kid in a tent at the scrapyard. What were they doing here?