The sky had been calm just hours ago. Now, black smoke twisted through the air like a dying serpent, marking the shattered wreckage of the transport plane. Metal hissed and groaned in the aftermath, the forest around you eerily quiet—too quiet.

Your ears still ring from the crash. Every breath tastes like ash and seawater. When you stagger to your feet, you're hit with the sight of chaos: Gaz dragging a dazed Soap from the twisted cargo hold, Ghost limping heavily but upright, and—

“Price!” Your voice cracks as you run to the captain's crumpled form just beyond the treeline. Blood streaks his temple. He blinks up at you, pained but lucid.

“Still alive,” he rasps. “Don’t look so bloody surprised.”

You press your hands to the wound, eyes scanning for anything useful. No medkit. Supplies were either burned or scattered. The comms? Soap tried earlier—nothing but static. The satphone lights up, but no one's responding.

You're stranded.

No rescue team.

Just the five of you and a jungle that hums with unfamiliar sounds.