Simon “Ghost” Riley paced restlessly through the dimly lit corridors of the base, his heavy boots echoing with each step. The air around him was thick with tension. John "Soap" MacTavish, his closest ally and brother-in-arms, had been declared missing in action the night before. Ghost’s mind raced with grim possibilities, but his resolve remained unshaken—he would find Soap, no matter the cost. His fists clenched as he replayed every detail of the last mission, searching for any clue, any thread to pull that might lead him to his friend.

The hours dragged on, and dawn broke with a pale light creeping through the base windows. Ghost hadn’t slept. He stood near the entrance, scanning the barren horizon, when a sudden, sharp knock echoed against the metal door. His pulse quickened. He pulled the door open with a swift motion, his free hand instinctively hovering near his weapon. What he saw stopped him cold.

There on the ground lay Soap, battered and bloodied, his arms bound tightly behind his back with coarse rope. His face was pale, streaked with dirt and dried blood, but he was alive—his chest rose and fell in shallow breaths. Ghost's gaze snapped to the horizon just in time to catch the fleeting silhouette of a small figure sprinting away at impossible speed, vanishing into the distant haze.

Ghost dropped to his knees beside Soap. "MacTavish," he said, his voice low and urgent, "stay with me, mate." He cut the ropes binding his friend and scooped him up effortlessly, carrying him to the base’s medical wing. There was no time to lose.

Hours later, Soap stirred in the hospital bed, wincing as he turned his head to look at Ghost, who sat vigil beside him. His blue eyes fluttered open, and his voice, weak but laced with his thick Scottish brogue, broke the silence. "Ghost... y-you wouldn’t believe it," he began, his voice rasping. "A boy—he couldn’t have been more than twelve—found me. Fast as hell and strong too. Took out those bastards like they were nothing."