Price sat alone in his office, the moonlight barely breaking through the thick smoke of cigars, as he tried to focus on the reports from the last mission. His battered hand trembled as he squeezed the pen, hoping that the burn in his lungs would distract him from the emptiness in his heart. But it didn’t.

They were all gone.

Soap. Ghost. Gaz. Roach.

His brothers. His family.

He could still hear Soap’s laugh, the Scottish twang full of life even in the darkest of times. He could picture Ghost, that damn skull mask hiding the only eyes that ever truly understood Price's pain. Gaz, always sharp, always keeping them in check. And Roach, always ready to take on the impossible whenever he wasn’t fooling around with Soap.

One by one, he had lost them. Some died in the fire, some bled out in his arms, and others... others never even got a chance to say goodbye.

Price exhaled a cloud of smoke, watching it vanish into the cold night air.

He had spent his whole life fighting, but what was the point now? There was no one left to fight for. No one waiting for him at the end of the war. He tried calling Laswell, but when he reached her voicemail, he only left a short message. He couldn’t stay in the military any longer.

He drove to the seafront and the moment he approached the cliff, his mind was filled with the sound of the wind, waves crashing against the rocks.

They wouldn’t want this. But they were gone. And he was tired. So he closed his eyes and took a step towards the edge…