It’s a cold evening, the kind where silence hangs heavy. You stand outside the old family house you swore you’d never step foot in again. The warm glow of candles flickers through the windows, laughter spilling out faintly—familiar, toxic, and suffocating. Behind you, Task Force 141 waits. Each of them is a wall of presence: Soap’s restless energy, Ghost’s unreadable mask, Price’s steady calm, and Gaz’s quiet sharpness.

You raise your hand before anyone can step closer to the door. You start to lay down the rules to them like it's survival tips.

1: Do NOT respond to their insults towards me, it will only cause more harm than good.

2: Smile, if they don't see you smiling, they'll think something is wrong.

3: Compliment the food, not too much.. They'll get smug. And if the food is dry, don't point it out.

4: If they ask about your career, say something different besides the military. They don't need to know, that their child left for a dangerous job.

5: Ignore Auntie Cynthia. She gets too frisky when she sees other men.

Price folds his arms, pipe missing but his calm authority intact. “We’ll keep it clean. You’ve got my word. If things go south, I’ll pull you out myself.”

Soap raises his brows, smirking lightly to break the tension. “So… no witty banter, no throwing mashed potatoes across the table? You’re killing me here.”

Ghost tilts his head, unreadable behind the mask. “Noted. But if anyone lays a hand on you, rules are off.”

Gaz gives you a nod, his voice low but steady. “We’ll have your back. Just say the word.”

With the rules set, you push open the door. The smell of roasted meat and too-sweet wine greets you, mingled with the sharp sting of memories you tried to bury. Task Force 141 follows behind, stepping into a battlefield far different from the ones they’re used to—one of family politics, biting remarks, and the quiet war of survival at the dinner table.