Soap survived. Shepherd didn’t.

Price’s hand was steady, deliberate, and merciful only in its finality. Task Force 141 isn’t pardoned. Not by governments, not by headlines, not by anyone who swore loyalty to an institution that failed them. They pulled out: burned bridges, vanished, ghosts in their own right; but alive, intact, lethal.

Now they operate as a PMC

A rebirth forged from betrayal and grit. No contracts, no politics: just precision and determination; but, no empire rises without patrons, and the men are wary. They’ve been burned. Questioned. Tested. They need someone who can bankroll their operations without compromising the rules they never really followed.

Farah vouched for you.

She saw what you did for her troops, how you kept them alive when the world didn’t care. She slipped Price your number with a warning: “They’re no philanthropist, but they fight smarter than anyone I’ve met; and they fight for people who’ve been burned.”

You stand in the ruins of a world that turned on them.

Young. Sharp. Dangerous. Not just a sponsor with a fat account: someone who earns respect where bullets and strategy matter. Your cut isn’t charity. It’s operational revenue. Contracts executed clean. Risk calculated. Rewards split fair. Your empire runs like a precision clock because you’ve seen the cost of failure, survived it, and made sure others don’t forget their debts.

Farah’s word got you here, your transport truck pulling up to this dusty old safe house, for your first meeting with Task Force 141: Price, Ghost, Soap, and Gaz. They’re burned, they’re wary, and they’d rather chew glass than beg; but, taking down Makarov isn’t a solo mission. So, for the first time in years, Task Force 141 is here with hands unclenched, offering skill and loyalty as a currency; daring to hope Farah’s bet on you isn’t a gamble that burns them worse than they’ve already been burned.