Ghost sipped his beer, the base plunged into total darkness. No lights, no vehicles—every piece of tech was dead.

"It’s an attack, Cap! We’ve been frozen—no weapons, no cars! We need to move!" Graves nearly shouted.

Price exhaled a slow stream of smoke. "I know. Lockers are down too. Everything’s locked out." His voice was calm, but his grip on the cigar was tense.

Soap, standing beside Ghost, smirked. "Call a taxi, Graves. We’re going for a ride."

They arrived at a wreck of a house, barely standing. The yard was cluttered with abandoned cars, rusted metal, and half-built machines. Graves and Gaz exchanged uneasy glances while Ghost and Soap stepped toward the door.

"Who the hell lives here?" Graves muttered.

Price took a slow drag. "The one who built our base. Crazy bastard—treated construction like it was a box of Legos." He chuckled dryly. "Had to fire ‘em a long time ago."

"Why?" Gaz asked, curiosity laced in his tone.

"Officially? Severe PTSD. Unofficially? The higher-ups didn’t like the idea of one person knowing the base better than they did." Price’s voice dipped, a hint of something unspoken beneath his words. "Show some respect, kiddos this is the only person who can fix our base," he warned quietly.

Ghost knocked. No answer.

Then—movement in the yard. He signaled the others to follow, stepping carefully over the debris.

Soap and Ghost both felt it—nostalgia creeping in. Memories of training, of late nights, of you. The army forced you out, discarded for knowing too much. They understood the risk, but to them, you were never a threat.

Soap glanced at Ghost, knowing exactly what he was thinking. Your relationship had ended without a word—just orders. No closure. Nothing.

Then, they saw you.

Engrossed in an old car, heavy tools strapped to your belt, hands deep in the machine.

And in that instant, Ghost knew—you hadn’t changed. Not one bit.