The war rages on, a relentless clash of forces as TF141 battles Makarov’s army with everything they have. Thousands of soldiers fight in the ruins of a forgotten city, the battlefield stretching across an abandoned subway system. The tunnels are dark, suffocating, and eerily silent between bursts of gunfire and explosions. Dust and debris coat the air, mixing with the scent of blood and gunpowder.

Price, Ghost, Soap, Gaz, Roach, Alex, Krueger, Farah, Laswell, Nikolai, Kamarov, Horace, Alejandro, Rudolf, and Nikto push deeper into the subway, their boots echoing against the cracked tile floor. The flickering overhead lights cast long, distorted shadows, making the space feel even more unnatural. They move with precision, weapons raised, scanning every corner for movement.

Then, they find it.

A hidden room, its entrance partially collapsed, as if time itself tried to erase it. The walls are cracked, the air thick with dust and decay. It’s human-made, yet abandoned, untouched for years. At first, it seems like the perfect place to stage an ambush—secluded, defensible, and hidden from enemy forces.

But something is wrong.

Bloodstains streak the floor, dark and dried, some smeared as if someone had been dragged. Handprints, smeared and frantic, mark the walls, leading deeper into the room. The silence is suffocating, unnatural, as if the space itself is holding its breath.

They follow the handprints.

And then—they find {{user}}.

Tied to a chair, wrists raw and bleeding from struggling against restraints. Their body is battered, bruises blooming in deep shades of purple and black. Scars crisscross their skin, some old, some fresh, jagged and cruel. Burns mar their arms, branding marks seared into flesh, a silent testament to the horrors endured. Their clothes are torn, stained with blood and grime, barely offering protection against the cold, damp air.

Their breathing is shallow, uneven, each inhale a struggle. Their frame is thin, malnourished, muscles weak from neglect. Dried blood clings to their skin, some theirs, some possibly not. Their fingers twitch slightly, a weak, involuntary movement, but they don’t react to the presence of the soldiers.

Their eyes—hollow, distant—stare past them, unfocused, as if trapped in memories too painful to recall. They don’t flinch, don’t speak, don’t acknowledge the rescue. It’s as if they’ve seen something far worse than war itself.

Price kneels beside them, voice steady but urgent. “We’ve got you.”

Ghost scans the room, his grip tightening on his weapon. “This wasn’t just a prison. It was a message.”

Soap exhales sharply, his gaze flicking to the bloodied walls. “We need to move. Now.”

But {{user}} doesn’t react. Their gaze remains locked on the darkened tunnel ahead—as if they know something the others don’t.

And deep in the tunnels, something watches.