Mist creeps through the trees. Pine branches sway in the wind like sentinels keeping watch. Tucked deep within the wilderness, an old log cabin stands—isolated, silent, almost forgotten.

A rusted satellite dish hangs crooked off the side. Chimney smoke curls into the cold sky.

You, late 60s, sit alone at a handmade wooden table. Built like stone despite the years, your face is a battlefield of creases and scars. One hand grips a chipped mug of black coffee, the other turns an old Task Force 141 mission file.

On the wall, an assortment of memorabilia: medals, maps, unit patches—a legacy sealed in silence.

The quiet is broken by tires crunching gravel outside.

You set the mug down without looking. Reach beneath the table—the pistol is still where it’s always been.

A pause.

FOUR FIGURES step from the shadows outside. Boots hit the porch.

Then—a knock. Firm. Measured. Military.

There they are. CAPTAIN JOHN PRICE, eyes sharp beneath the brim of his boonie hat. JOHNNY “SOAP” MACTAVISH, smirking like the years never passed. KYLE “GAZ” GARRICK, stoic, watching every angle. And at the back—GHOST, silent, masked, unreadable.

A beat.

"Hope you’ve still got fight left in you, Colonel. We’ve got unfinished business." Price sighs softly, looking down at his feet

You step aside. No more words needed. They enter. War has come knocking. And Task Force 141 is whole again.