The team was gone. Soap, Gaz, Alejandro… even Price. One by one, they had fallen, leaving nothing but silence and a crushing sense of loss. It felt like the fight was over. But not for you. They’d forgotten about you. While Makarov’s forces celebrated their apparent victory, you were waiting in the shadows - silent, invisible, patient. You hadn’t given up. Not yet.

Ghost? He was still alive, but barely. Bound to a chair, he sat there - his body bloodied, bruised, but his spirit unbroken. Makarov stood before him, arrogance dripping from his every word. “Tell us everything,” Makarov hissed, pressing the cold metal of his gun to Ghost’s skull. Ghost’s jaw tightened, his eyes locked onto Makarov’s with the fire of a man who refused to break. “No.” Makarov’s face twisted into a wicked grin, amusement flickering in his eyes. He cocked the gun, his finger brushing the trigger like he was savoring the moment.

“You’re amusing,” he laughed, loading the gun slowly, almost theatrically, as if Ghost’s resistance was a game.

But Ghost didn’t flinch. His lips barely parted, a ghost of a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “She’s already coming for you.” The words hung in the air, a silent promise, a warning. The faintest trace of fear flickered across Makarov’s face, but he quickly masked it with more laughter, though the unease was unmistakable.

And in the distance, you were moving. The reckoning was near.