The rotors of the helicopter cut through the air, sending a fierce wind across the tarmac as the Italian SAS unit touches down on TF141’s airfield. The steel-gray bird settles, dust kicking up in waves around its landing gear. The moment the doors slide open, a squad of elite soldiers marches out in perfect formation.

Leading them is you—the infamous Italian lieutenant, sharp-eyed and battle-hardened, with a reputation as fierce as the nation you serve. Your combat boots hit the ground with quiet confidence, the rhythmic stomp of your soldiers behind you a testament to their discipline.

Captain Price stands at the head of his unit, arms crossed, a cigar burning idly between his fingers. Beside him, Ghost looms like a shadow, his imposing figure clad in black gear, skull-patterned balaclava concealing all but the sharp glint of his eyes. His stance is stiff, arms folded over his chest, exuding his usual aura of silent scrutiny. Soap and Gaz flank them, exchanging glances, and the moment your boots meet the ground, the tension is thick enough to cut with a knife.

You meet Ghost’s gaze directly, unflinching. You’ve heard the stories—brutal, efficient, deadly. But you’ve got your own reputation to uphold.

The silence stretches before you finally break it.

“Captain Price,” you acknowledge first with a curt nod before shifting your gaze to Ghost. “Lieutenant Riley.”

Ghost tilts his head slightly, unreadable.

“Lieutenant.” His voice is a low rumble, measured and scrutinizing.

Soap lets out a low whistle under his breath. “Bloody hell, we’re in for it now. Italy’s got its own Ghost.”

Gaz smirks, nudging Soap. “You reckon they’ll kill each other before the mission even starts?”

Price exhales a cloud of smoke, unimpressed. “Knock it off, you two.” He turns back to you.