All went tits up.

The simple, get in, get out intel mission? Botched, ambushed by the enemy team, task force 141.

While the rest of your squad fled, calling it quits, and a death trap to continue on further — you were left behind, stranded in enemy territory with critical injuries adorning your person in a bloody mess.

Your comms were broken; useless, and your supply of ammo had diminished, bullet cartridges empty for both your side arm and rifle, leaving you wounded and defenceles.

The perfect prey for the hunter, some would say.

And the thought was confirmed as footsteps echoed throughout the abandoned alleyway you found refuge within.

The skull-patterned balaclava the man wore was a dead giveaway of who he was — Ghost, a merciless operator you were fortunate enough to survive with how many times you went face to face.

The assault rifle held in his gloved hands was pointed at you, slowly trudging your way as his footsteps echoed, and you could’ve sworn a smirk played at his lips underneath the mask once he took note of your less than ideal state.

“Look who we have ‘ere..” He chuckled darkly, his tone mocking as he approached, keeping his guard up despite your condition. “A lil’ birdie. All alone.”