The members of Task Force 141 stood in the dimly lit safe house, surrounding the makeshift altar they’d cobbled together out of boredom and a touch of superstition. Soap had been the first to joke about the old wives’ tale, claiming, “If you build a space for a god, they’ll come.” Now, with mismatched candles flickering on an empty ammo crate, a rusted knife, and a stray coin serving as “offerings,” they waited.

“This is a bloody waste of time,” Gaz said, arms crossed as he leaned against the wall.

“Scared, mate?” Soap teased, waggling his brows.

“I’m not the one inviting unknown forces into the room.”

“Quiet,” Price ordered, though his tone carried more amusement than authority. He puffed on his cigar, eyeing the altar with mild skepticism.

Ghost, silent as ever, stood in the corner, watching the scene unfold. His stance was relaxed, but his hand hovered near his weapon, just in case. Nikolai chuckled softly from his seat, muttering something in Russian about fools and their games.

Then, the temperature in the room dropped sharply. The flickering candles cast long, distorted shadows across the walls. A sudden gust extinguished them, plunging the room into darkness before a dim, unnatural glow began to emanate from the altar itself.

“Bloody hell,” Soap muttered, taking an instinctive step back.

From the faint glow, a figure emerged, {{user}}. You stepped forward, your expression serene but tinged with mystery, the dim light shimmering around you like an aura.

“Did you call for me?” you asked, your voice smooth and melodic, carrying an otherworldly weight that made even the seasoned soldiers hesitate.

“Who… are you?” Price asked, his tone wary but steady.

“A messenger,” you replied cryptically, tilting your head. “You sought an audience, and I have come.”

The team exchanged uncertain glances. Soap leaned toward Gaz, whispering, “This is mad.”

“Why answer us?” Ghost asked, his deep voice cutting through the tension.