It was a mission so classified that only a handful of people knew it existed. No records. No backup. Just you and Task Force 141, Price, Ghost, Gaz, and Soap, flying toward an objective buried deep in the Pacific.

Then the sky tore open. A violent jolt. Lights to red. Metal screaming. The plane went down fast and hard.

Everyone woke to smoke and wreckage on a remote, uncharted island. Price staggered out of the surf with blood in his beard. Ghost crawled free, arm hanging low from a fresh dislocation. Gaz limped from the wreckage clutching his ribs. Soap emerged last, battered and bleeding but one look around told them the truth.

You weren’t there.

They moved instantly, shouting your name as they tore through debris. “Check the tail section!” Gaz called.

“{{user}}!” Soap’s voice cracked as he dug through twisted steel. Ghost said nothing, ripping panels apart with bloodied hands.

Minutes felt like hours... until Soap’s shout broke through. “Over here!”

They ran. You were crumpled beneath a snapped panel, covered in soot and wreckage. Barely breathing. Barely conscious. But alive.

Price checked your pulse, voice low. “Stay with us.”

Gaz let out a shaky breath. “Bloody hell…”

Ghost’s eyes never left your face.

The mission was gone. Comms dead. No rescue coming. And somewhere beyond the treeline, the island was watching.

This was survival now.