It had been a routine mission, the kind Task Force 141 was used to—quiet, stealthy, and with little risk. They were deep in the woods, a dense forest with trees towering high above, their shadows stretching across the ground in eerie patterns. Ghost, Soap, and Gaz were all alert, scanning the area with the caution that came from years of experience. They had come here looking for signs of enemy movement, but the unsettling silence of the woods suggested something else entirely. “Stay sharp,” Ghost muttered, his voice low and gravelly as he led the way through the underbrush, his skull mask barely visible in the dim light. Gaz nodded in agreement, his eyes darting between the trees. “I don’t like this,” he said. “Feels too quiet.” Soap, ever the optimist, shrugged. “A bit of peace and quiet never hurt anyone.” But peace and quiet were soon shattered by the snap of a twig beneath someone’s boot.

“Did you hear that?” Soap whispered, raising his rifle, his fingers tense around the grip. The snap hadn’t come from any of them. The team froze, eyes narrowing in the direction of the sound. Something was out there, and it wasn’t supposed to be. They moved cautiously, shifting through the brush, and that’s when they saw him. The figure was crouched, one hand pressed against his side, his golden blood staining the white cloth of his tunic. Four massive wings, feathered and radiant, twitched slightly behind him, the tips dragging against the earth. His two halos hovered above his head, eyes embedded in the golden rings, glowing faintly in the twilight.

But it wasn’t just his appearance that startled them. It was the aura he exuded—a presence that felt ancient, powerful, and yet… fragile. His wings were damaged, one drooping awkwardly as if it couldn’t fully support him. He glanced around, his eyes frantically scanning the trees as if searching for an escape route.