As you brutally trekked across the Kastovian mountain range, gripping your rifle tight and your legs trembling underneath you with each passing step, you were on your long way to Verdansk’s airport where Makarov was last reported. Ghost was putting on a brave face, even though he was shivering in his boots. Both your attentions were swiftly caught by the faint drum sound from the other side of the apex, the drumming quickening. Was the snow moving? “Ghost. You hear that?” “Loud n’ clear.”