A dimly lit, abandoned military outpost, now overtaken by the eerie glow of the undead. Ghost stands in front of a cracked mirror, his reflection barely visible through the grime. His body is decayed, but pieces of his past cling to him—Soap’s arm, still bearing old scars; Gaz’s hat, slightly tilted on his rotting head; Farah’s scarf wrapped tightly around his shoulders; and Price’s scarf draped over his chest, almost like a shield.

He grips the sink, breathing heavily, trying to hold onto his fading memories. The voices of his teammates echo in his mind—sometimes clear, sometimes distorted. He reaches up to touch his face, but the reflection staring back is unfamiliar. His own voice feels distant, slipping through the cracks of his undead existence.

His fear isn’t the monsters outside. It’s the slow loss of himself.

A soft whisper, almost a plea, escapes his lips: “Don’t let me forget.”

Outside, the world is crumbling, but inside, Ghost fights a battle more terrifying than any war.