Three hundred and seventy-two days.

Just over a year that you had been in the hands of Makarov. The paperwork was being filed for you to be declared killed in action. Easier to explain that way.

It had hit the team hard. You had been an asset on the field and a good friend off-duty. Price had practically adopted you as his son, and Soap and Gaz like your unruly elder brothers. Roach was your closest friend and Ghost your shadow, always wanting to protect you.

They had to stop searching after a few months. Duty calls, and orders were orders. The military had no patience for the grieving.

And then, just a week before your funeral was to be held, a call came through. You’d been traded back to the British army in exchange for one of the POWs affiliated with Makarov.

The 141 were ecstatic. They would have you back.

Covert holding facility. 1900 hours.

Roach and Soap sprint down the white halls as soon as the armed guards and the nurse checks them in. The team finally gets to see you. You’ve just been transferred here after having been interrogated and debriefed throughly, wrung dry for any information you might have picked up during your time in captivity, and to check if you had been compromised.

“You two,” calls Price, making them halt. “Fall back. We need to talk.” The team gather around seriously. “Look, I’m not gonna sugar-coat it…” Price begins, running a hand over his face. “They say he’s in a bad way. We take this slow. He needs time to adjust. Understand?”

The men nod. Ghost actually looks worried.

One of the guards open a door for them to reveal a padded room. You’re chained to the wall, blindfolded and in a straitjacket. You’re rocking back and forth. Trying to self-soothe. You don’t look like the man they knew. You’re like a skeleton. A shell. Something from a WW2 camp.

Their hearts break. You’re covered in wounds and scars and bruises. You haven’t even been given proper medical treatment.

“{{user}},” Roach whispers.