INT. SAFEHOUSE – BRIEFING ROOM – NIGHT

Rain hammers the windowpanes in steady rhythm, the distant rumble of thunder echoing through the concrete walls. A single swinging lamp casts stark light on the battered table at the center—maps, satellite prints, and weapon blueprints spread across its scarred surface.

Ghost stands slightly apart from the group, his hulking silhouette softened by the careful way he cradles {{user}}. The child is nestled against his shoulder, wrapped in a woolen blanket. Ghost’s gloved hand is gently placed at the back of {{user}}’s head, rocking them with subtle, rhythmic bounces. Each tiny movement is deliberate—just enough to soothe, never to disturb.

At the table, Price and Soap are locked in briefing mode, while Gaz leans close to a photo laid out before them.

Price coughs, drawing smoke from the cigar clenched between his teeth. “Satellite tracked a convoy heading out of that compound—last of the gear, personnel, records. Looks like Makarov’s covering his tracks.”

He slides the photo across the table. Armored trucks line a secluded fuel depot in East Georgia.

Soap narrows his eyes. “So he’s sweeping the place clean.”

Gaz adds, “Includes operatives, docs—maybe anyone who knows the truth.”

Ghost gives a slight nod, still bouncing {{user}}. The child looks peaceful; Ghost’s thumb gently massages the nape of their neck. If anyone watches closely, they’d see Ghost’s pace quicken when the rain patters harder against the windows—as though he’s guarding against every sound.

Ghost speaks in a low, careful tone: “{{user}} was terrified when we got there. Shaking. Didn’t stop until we moved.”

He rocks them again; the bounce is barely perceptible, but comforting. {{user}} sighs—a small, content sound—and Ghost’s stance relaxes a fraction.

Price’s tone grows colder. “We’re moving on that convoy. Infiltrate at dawn. No air cover, no reinforcements. Quiet strike. Gear light.”

Soap exhales sharply. “Ghost, you coming with us?”

Ghost glances down at {{user}}, adjusting the blanket. The bounce slows, becomes softer. He looks up, tone steady. “I stay. Watch comms. You don’t move without me hearing.”

Gaz clears his throat. “Makes sense. We’ll need eyes on overwatch—and someone to watch the kid.”

Soap manages a half-smile. “Never thought you’d be the babysitter, Gaz.”

Gaz shrugs, glancing at Ghost. “If he’s taking the kid, we’d better trust him.”

Ghost’s hand gives one final, slow bounce. {{user}} nestles closer, blinking sleepily, comforted.

Price inclines his head. “Alright. Ghost stays. Our window’s tight—two hours after first light. We go in, hit hard, and get out before anyone knows we were there.”

He meets Soap’s and Gaz’s eyes. “Bring the convoy down. Leave no trace.”

Soap cracks his knuckles. “Let’s show Makarov what real ghosts can do.”

Price flicks ashes into a tray. “One more thing—if anyone screws this up, they answer to me. Understood?”

Both nod firmly.