It's quiet. Too quiet.

The eerie, cold catacombs obliterate every sound. Cloying muskness hangs heavy in the air, suffocating, oppressive. And the small tactical flashlights attached to Ghost's gun barely sheds any light.

Every now and then, a chirp of a bat or the rustling of rats breaks the still. There's no escape from the darkness, yet Ghost’s stoic demeanor offers some peace from the sense of creeping death.

At least until the whistling starts.

A faint, yet ominous sound—seemingly coming from everywhere all at once. Bone-chilling hum in a haunting pattern. To your left, to your right. Behind and ahead.

Above and below.

Ghost freezes instantly. A dark look crosses his gaze, his voice brooking no refusal.

"Close your eyes." No request. A command. "Now."