Snow crunched beneath Roach’s boots as he crept through the blizzard-choked valley in Kazakhstan. His breath fogged the inside of his balaclava, each exhale a fleeting ghost against the bitter cold. The mission was simple: recon the enemy convoy moving through the frozen pass—but things rarely stayed simple in the field.

Through the static of his earpiece, Ghost’s voice crackled in low and dry. "Eyes up, Roach. Movement at your eleven." Roach froze, adjusting the scope on his rifle. Just barely visible through the curtain of snow, a line of figures trudged through the powder, silhouettes softened by the storm. Four tangos. Armed. Focused. No backup in sight.

He lowered his weapon slightly, letting his instincts take the lead. Roach wasn’t loud like Soap or cold like Ghost—he was methodical. Precise. Deadly when he needed to be, but never cruel. He slipped forward, hugging the ridge line, heartbeat steady despite the tension that gripped the air.

Then a shout rang out—too loud, too close.

A fifth enemy, hidden in the rocks, spotted him.

No time to think.

Roach dove for cover as bullets tore through the snow where he’d stood seconds before. He rolled, came up firing, his suppressed M4 kicking once, twice—targets dropped. Ghost barked over comms, “Roach, status?”

“Compromised,” Roach replied, breath tight. “Engaging.”

He didn’t wait for a response. He moved like wind—silent, but unrelenting. One enemy lunged with a knife, but Roach sidestepped, disarmed, and drove the blade into his gut with a firm twist. The last one tried to run.

Roach didn’t let him.

Silence settled again, broken only by wind.

“Area secure,” he muttered.

Ghost’s voice came back, low with admiration. “Bloody hell, Roach… remind me never to piss you off.”

Roach gave a rare, quiet chuckle. “Too late for that.”