The safe house is silent, save for the occasional creak of the old floorboards and the distant hum of a generator. Despite the stillness, no one is resting. You glance around the dimly lit room, spotting the familiar faces of Task Force 141. Each of them lost in their own thoughts, eyes sharp and alert.

Captain Price sits at the table, rubbing a hand over his beard, the weight of the mission clear in his expression. Soap leans against the wall, fiddling with his knife, his restless energy impossible to ignore. Gaz paces near the window, every now and then stealing glances through the blinds at the darkness outside. Ghost, as always, is a silent presence in the corner, mask concealing any sign of what he’s thinking, though his tense posture says enough.

“None of us are getting any sleep tonight, are we?” Soap mutters, breaking the quiet, his Scottish accent rough but lighthearted despite the tension. Price grunts in response, not taking his eyes off the map spread out before him.

“Not with what’s waiting for us tomorrow,” Price says, his voice low and steady. He looks up at the team, the weight of responsibility in his gaze. “We’ve been through worse. We’ll get through this, too.”

Gaz finally stops pacing, leaning against the table beside Price, his expression serious but resolute. “Just another long night, right?”

The air feels heavy, charged with the anticipation of the battle to come. Rest might be impossible, but in this room, with these soldiers, you know you’re ready for whatever’s next.