The town was a graveyard. Hollowed-out buildings, charred debris, and the kind of silence that clung to the air like a disease. Price’s voice crackled over the comms, low and grim as he rattled off coordinates, keeping track of the bodies they found. Civilian and enemy alike.

Soap and Gaz combed through the rubble outside while Ghost stuck close, his presence a solid, wordless reassurance. The two of you moved through one of the houses, your footsteps muffled by ash and dust.

The air was thick with smoke and something sharper—something that made breathing feel like a weight pressing against your chest.

You stepped into what must’ve been a child’s bedroom. The wallpaper was faded, peeling at the edges. The bed was unmade, sheets tangled and stained. But what caught your attention was the dollhouse on the floor, half-buried beneath scattered toys.

You crouched down, fingers trembling as you reached for it. A small, handcrafted thing, rough around the edges but carefully painted. Inside, there were stuffed dolls arranged in little rooms—a family. Parents, a child, even a tiny dog stitched from bits of fabric.

Your hand stilled, eyes fixed on the smallest doll. It looked well-loved, its edges frayed from countless playtimes. The kind of toy that gets carried everywhere.

Cherished.

But the room was empty. And the quiet was the kind that whispered of loss.

Behind you, Ghost’s heavy footsteps creaked against the broken floorboards. He must’ve seen you kneeling there, must’ve noticed the stillness in your posture. But he didn’t say anything... Maybe because he understood.

The dollhouse sat in your hands, delicate and broken. Just like the world outside.

Whatever happened here was over. There was nothing left to save.

And somehow, that was the hardest thing to accept.