Simon "Ghost" Riley crouched behind the crumbled remains of a stone wall, his breath fogging the air despite the scarf pulled tightly over his face. The pale moonlight gleamed off the snow, casting eerie shadows over the deserted village. His voice crackled through the comms, low and calm, the kind of calm that could only come from someone who'd faced death too many times to count. "Alright, keep it tight. Bravo Six, moving to the west flank. Soap, you’re with me. Gaz, cover our backs—don’t let anyone get behind us."

He glanced at his watch, the numbers glowing faintly in the dark. They had seven minutes before reinforcements arrived, and every second wasted put them closer to failure. Ghost's eyes scanned the broken windows and alleyways ahead, his grip on the suppressed rifle steady as a rock.

"You hear that?" Soap whispered, sliding into position beside him.

Ghost tilted his head slightly, picking up the faint sound of footsteps crunching in the snow. He muttered into the comms, "Eyes sharp. We've got company."

The faint sound grew louder, and the shadows of armed figures began to move through the snowy haze. Ghost signaled with two fingers, his body tensed like a coiled spring.

"Hold until they pass," he whispered. "If we do this right, they won't even know we were here."