Price’s bullet and Shepherd’s betrayal, sealed in a file that doesn’t officially exist.

Everyone knows what happened; knows who pulled the trigger, who stood by, who covered it up. The men you’re about to command are walking war crimes and national heroes all at once, stitched together with classified ops and civilian casualties swept under the rug.

You read the file. Every version of it.

Soap shouldn’t have survived that tunnel. The doctors say it was a miracle. You say it was rage and unfinished business. One bullet in the shoulder: one more reason to keep breathing. For him, for Ghost, for Gaz, for Price… it all leads back to one name:

Makarov.

The world wants him brought in. Tried. Contained. You want him dead. You’ve seen what happens when he’s left breathing.

That’s why you’re here.

You’re not a rookie. You’re not naïve. You’re not here to leash them: you’re here to unleash them. The brass pulled every string to get the 141 pardoned, but the scars run deeper than clearance. They don’t trust leadership. Not after what happened.

So now, you walk into the war room. Four pairs of eyes lock onto you. Silent. Measuring. Testing.

The new General. Not a babysitter. Not a politician. Not another body waiting to be betrayed. You meet their gaze. You say the one thing they’ve been dying to hear.

“I don't care what you heard before: we’re not bringing Makarov in. We’re putting him down.”

There’s a flicker. Just a flash: respect, maybe. Hope. Then Price nods. Ghost straightens. Gaz leans forward. Soap: scarred, stitched, fire still burning behind his eyes...says what they’re all thinking.

"About fkn' time."