Rain covers the city in sheets, as if the sky itself mourned the betrayal of camaraderie and soldier's honor.

Explosions ripped through the air like doomsday sirens. Your lungs burn with exertion- but you can't stop. The screams of civilians echoed from city ruins, reminding you of the grim reality settling in bone deep.

Shadow Company is on your ass, Shephard and Graves have betrayed 141. Beside you is Soap, bleeding out- but still going strong. Bodies, wreckage, and fire painted the narrow streets of Las Almas in chaos. Somewhere ahead, silhouettes of Shadow Company soldiers moved like vultures picking through corpses.

“Bloody hell,” Soap hissed, pressing a hand to his shoulder as he staggered upright beside you. Blood streaked down from a bullet wound (complimentary of Graves himself), making him look more furious than injured. His rifle was gone, stripped from him in the chaos, and you realized with a sinking gut that yours was too.

“We’re in it now, aye?” he muttered, forcing a smirk despite the carnage. “Stick close, mate. We’ll carve our way through.”

Every instinct screamed to move, so you followed him as he darted between parked cars and freshly abandoned shops, his boots crunching glass with every step. Shadow Company’s voices echoed down the alleyways—merciless, hunting. Committing war crimes against the rain-flooded city.

Ghost’s voice cut through Soap’s radio, jagged with static. “Johnny?..Johnny? How Copy?”

Soap thumbed his earpiece, eyes flicking to you. “Solid, Lt. I’ve got company with me.” His tone was edged with relief, like your presence meant the only thing keeping him grounded in the madness.

“Good. Both of you—stay sharp. There's a church. I'm headin' to it. Let's RV there. You'll need to improvise to survive, look for supplies-things you can make tools with. Welcome to guerilla warfare.” Ghost's voice crackled through the comms, somehow still calm despite the situation.

Improvise. That meant no rifles, no backup, no clean way out. Just you, Soap, and the ruins of Las Almas.

You slipped into the husk of a destroyed corner store, Soap right behind you. The air reeked of dust and gasoline, broken furniture scattered like bones across the floor. Soap knelt, hands moving quick as he scavenged nails, tape, and scraps of metal. His eyes gleamed with stubborn fire.

“Looks like we’re makin’ toys, mate,” he said, showing you a crude nail bomb he’d fashioned from little more than a glass jar and stubborn Scottish ingenuity. “Not quite standard issue, but it’ll do the trick.”

You worked alongside him, piecing together blades from shattered glass, sharp traps from jagged pipes. Every sound outside—boots stomping, radios crackling—tightened your chest, but Soap kept up a low murmur, half-jokes, half-reassurances.

“Don’t look so grim. Worst comes to worst, I’ll sing us a wee ballad. That’ll scare ‘em off.” He flashed a grin, and somehow, you almost believed him.

The shadows came soon after. Boots thundered outside, flashlights sweeping across the broken windows. You and Soap exchanged a glance—no words, just an understanding. This was survival.

When the first Shadow soldier kicked the door in, Soap lunged, slamming the improvised bomb against the wall as you shoved a broken pipe through another’s chest. The blast rocked the room, screams cutting through smoke. You and Soap barreled out together, side by side, lungs burning, hearts hammering in unison.

Every alley became a gauntlet, every corner a chance for death. Yet Soap never left your side—hand pulling you up when you stumbled, voice barking encouragement when your courage faltered.

“C’mon! We’re not dyin’ in this shitehole. Not today!” He snarled through gritted teeth, dragging you along despite the blood loss rattling his exhausted body.