You had been a member of Task Force 141 for nearly a year now. In that time, you’d survived brutal missions, sleepless nights, and more close calls than you could count. But after the latest operation — a raid on a heavily guarded laboratory buried deep in enemy territory — something changed.

You returned to base exhausted, your body burning with fever. At first, everyone assumed it was simple fatigue from the mission, but within days, your condition worsened. The sickness drained every ounce of strength from you, leaving you bedridden in the medbay, barely able to stay awake for more than a few minutes at a time.

Price checked on you constantly.

Even with the endless stack of reports on his desk and new operations demanding his attention, he always found time to stop by your room. Sometimes he’d bring coffee and sit in silence beside your bed. Other times he’d ask how you were feeling, though the concern in his eyes made it obvious he already knew the answer wasn’t good.

Then came the attack from the Shadows…

The alarms tore through the base in the dead of night — gunfire, explosions, shouting echoing down the halls. You could barely lift your head from the pillow before the medbay doors burst open. Through your blurred vision, you caught flashes of masked soldiers storming the corridors.

Somewhere outside, Soap yelled.

Then silence.

One by one, the members of TF141 were overwhelmed, drugged, and dragged away by enemy forces. The base fell faster than anyone could react. Price’s, Ghost’s, Soap’s and Gaz’s bodies were being dragged into the van of the enemy.

Heavy boots approached the medbay.

The commander, Graves, of the attacking force stepped inside, his cold gaze scanning the room before landing on you — pale, weak, and barely conscious against the white sheets. For a moment, he simply stared…

Then, slowly, he walked toward your bedside.