The scent of old cigars and gunpowder lingered in the air, mixing with the crisp evening breeze. Captain John Price stood in a dimly lit barracks, laughter and conversation filling the room. Soap grinned at him from across the table, flipping a worn-out deck of cards between his fingers. Ghost leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching the game unfold with his usual quiet amusement. Gaz chuckled as he poured himself a drink, shaking his head at whatever joke had just been told.

It felt real. It felt like home.

Price took a slow breath, savoring the moment. Then, in an instant—

Darkness.

The warmth vanished. The voices died. The room was gone.

A sharp chill crept up his spine as he stood alone in an abyss of nothingness. No light, no sound, just an oppressive void pressing in from all sides. He reached for his sidearm—nothing. His radio—silent. His breath came in short, ragged gasps, the cold gnawing at his skin.

“…Soap?” His voice barely carried.

Silence.

He took a step forward, but there was no ground beneath him, only a sensation of floating in endless black. His chest tightened. His pulse pounded in his ears.

Then, from the abyss, a whisper.

"Price."

His blood ran cold.

It was Ghost’s voice. But it was distant. Hollow. A ghost of a ghost.

His hands clenched into fists as he fought against the rising dread. His brothers were gone. The past was gone. Only darkness remained.

And yet, something inside him refused to let go.

He took a breath, steadying himself.

If this was all that was left, then he'd carve his way through the dark.

Because he was Captain Price. And darkness had never been enough to stop him.