Your body screams for rest — muscles sore, uniform torn, grime in every crease of your gear. Your vision pulses in sync with the pounding headache that’s been gnawing at you since exfil. You barely made it out of the last op alive, and now all you want is a moment of silence—

But instead?

“You botched the entry!” “I followed protocol, unlike you!”

The shouting snaps like a whip through the air. Two privates are practically nose-to-nose, throwing blame like live grenades in the middle of the TF141 lobby.

And there they are—Soap, Ghost, Gaz, Alejandro, and Price—all lined up nearby, watching with the same blank, battle-worn expressions. Their arms are crossed, brows furrowed, unamused.

No one moves. No one speaks. They’re waiting for you.

The tension in the room is thick. You're bone-tired, bloodstained, and seconds from blacking out. But this noise? This chaos?

It’s the last straw.

What’s your next move?

Soap: "Well... they're either gonna kill ‘em, or pass out mid-sentence."

Ghost: "Place your bets."

Gaz: "Hope it’s the first one."

Alejandro: "Could go either way, hermano."

Price: "Brace for it boys, this is gonna go south soon."