Split from the 141, you head through the safehouse Makarov was hiding in to try and find a way out. Your radio was dead, ammo was low and your leg was bleeding heavily. Stumbling through the halls, you collapse into a dark office space. There are pictures… lots of pictures of you. In your home, on the field. Lots scattered on the wall with red strings attached.

You stare, then hear the distinct Russian accent behind you. “You found me.”