Your hands are slick with sweat and grime, muscles screaming as you shove against the heavy hatch. It won’t budge.

“Come on, come on!” you hiss, throwing your weight into it.

The whole mission has gone to hell. No bullets left, no way to fight back. Just you and the squad, running on fumes, desperate to escape. But the damn hatch won’t move.

And then—footsteps. Boots on metal. Your stomach twists. Enemy.

“Shit.” You brace yourself, chest heaving, knowing there’s nothing you can do. Nowhere to run.

Then suddenly—hands.

A strong grip shoves against the hatch beside you, a grunt of effort cutting through the chaos. You flinch, head snapping up—

And that’s when you see him.

A man, haggard yet composed, clad in casual military wear, a beanie pulled low over short-brown hair. There’s dirt smeared across his face, exhaustion in his eyes, but beneath it all—calm. Control.

The two of you push together, muscles straining, until finally—clang. The hatch slams shut.

You both stumble back, panting. Your heart is still hammering in your chest, your mind racing to make sense of what just happened.

“Captain Price.” The name comes with a deep, gravelly British accent, steady despite the chaos.

You blink, breath still unsteady, staring at the man beside you. He just nods, as if that alone explains everything. The sounds of distant gunfire echo above, but for now—for this moment—you’re alive.

“You’re with me” he nods before he turns around, expecting you to follow.