The lobby was concrete and decay.

Flickering fluorescent lights. Plastic chairs bolted to the floor. Air that tasted like dust and wet rust. Somewhere deep in the building, water dripped steadily, like the whole place was counting down to collapse.

Task Force 141 waited in that dead space.

Price sat still, hat low, hands folded. Calm in the way only dangerous men could be.

Gaz leaned against the wall, rifle across his lap, eyes occasionally tracking the corners like he didn’t trust the shadows.

Ghost sat apart from them, motionless, skull mask angled toward the hallway ahead as if he could hear something the others couldn’t.

Soap paced. Restless, irritated.

“This is a waste of time,” he muttered. “A ghost hunting company. We’re really doing this.”

Price didn’t look up. “Sit down.”

Soap ignored it. “Makarov’s hiding under a prison and we’re waiting around for people with crosses and chants?”

Gaz spoke quietly. “Reports say the thing can touch you.”

Soap scoffed. “So can half the world with a knife.”

Ghost’s voice cut in, low. “Not like this.”

Soap stopped mid-step. “You believe in ghosts now?”

Ghost turned his head slightly. “I believe in things that kill without leaving footprints.”

That shut Soap up for half a second, until he forced a laugh like it didn’t unsettle him.

Then the lobby temperature dropped fast, like the building exhaled something cold.

The lights flickered once.

Soap’s breath fogged faintly. He stared, jaw tightening. “Old wiring.”

Footsteps came down the hall.

Measured. Confident. Not cautious, not frightened.

A person appeared under the harsh light, lanyard at their neck, posture straight.

“Captain Price,” they said, stopping a few feet away. “Task Force 141. I’m your escort. GHD operations is below.”

Soap repeated it like a slur. “GHD.”

“This way,” the escort said, unimpressed.

They led them down a sealed stairwell. The deeper they went, the cleaner it got. New LEDs. Cold, filtered air. Not abandoned at all.

At the bottom, a steel door opened with a keypad click.

Soap expected a dusty storage room.

Instead, it was a bunker.

A full truck sat loaded with its ramp down, ready to deploy. Glass cases held strange objects: warped iron rings carved with symbols, bone beads, sealed syringes, hazard-tagged canisters. An entire wall of neatly mounted gear, unfamiliar devices mixed with military-level organization.

And a giant screen, bright as daylight, listing classifications like a threat database:

ENTITY TYPES IDENTIFICATION ATTACHMENT RISK PHYSICAL CONTACT PROBABILITY FAILURE OUTCOMES

Soap stopped.

“What the fuck…”

Gaz stared, silent.

Price’s eyes sharpened.

Ghost didn’t move. Like he’d been waiting to see proof.

Then the escort angled a hand toward the far end of the room.

“That’s your assigned exorcist.”