The streets of Istanbul were alive with noise—an endless current of voices, bartering, laughter, and the blaring call of car horns bleeding together into chaos. The air smelled of roasted chestnuts, fried bread, and exhaust fumes. It was a place built for getting lost.

Perfect.

Your lungs burned as though fire had settled deep inside them, every gulp of air searing but necessary. Sweat clung to your back beneath your jacket, your pulse hammering at your temples, your legs a blur of motion as you shoved through the thick crowds. Stalls lined either side of the market square, piled high with oranges, spices, fabrics that rippled like banners as you cut past them, sending jars of saffron and pepper crashing to the cobblestones. A vendor shouted curses behind you, but you didn’t stop. Couldn’t.

Behind, there was no mistaking that presence. Price.

Not a ghostly shadow, not a reckless Scotsman—Captain John Price was a storm moving with purpose. He wasn’t sprinting wild-eyed through the crowd. No, every stride was measured, relentless, the pace of a man who knew better than to burn himself out. He pressed forward with a commander’s patience, cigar-rough breaths dragging through his lungs but never breaking rhythm.

Where others would shove, Price slipped through with a soldier’s grace, parting the crowd with a sharp shoulder when needed, barking a clipped “Move!” when the bodies thickened too tightly around him. His hat tilted low, his eyes sharp beneath the brim, he cut a path that felt inevitable—like no matter how far you ran, he would be there, closing in step by steady step.

“Don’t make this harder than it has to be!” His voice thundered over the chaos, deep and commanding, rattling your nerves worse than the pounding of his boots. It wasn’t the manic taunt of Soap or the silent dread of Ghost—it was authority. It was a promise.

Task Force 141 spread along the market edges, their voices crackling across comms, but Price didn’t waste breath on chatter. He trusted his men to hold the net tight while he drove straight through the center. His focus was singular, unshakable—you.

Your body screamed with strain, legs quaking, lungs raw, yet adrenaline carried you on. Ducking beneath a line of lanterns, vaulting a toppled cart, twisting through alleys thick with shouting civilians—every move was an act of desperation. The people became obstacles in a shifting maze, every brush and shove threatening to topple you.

And the adrenaline was euphoric.

But Price was steady, inexorable. He didn’t let the burn in his legs slow him, didn’t let the stitch creeping into his ribs distract him. Years of hunts, of battlefield chases, had trained him for this. He wasn’t running wild—he was driving you, forcing you where he wanted you. Every shortcut you thought you found, every turn you thought would give you space, he was there, eating up the ground with quiet, merciless resolve.

The crowd screamed as the chase ripped through them. A basket tumbled, a stall collapsed under your vaulted weight, glass shattered across the stones—but Price never faltered. Every surge of panic you left in your wake, he cut straight through, the brim of his boonie hat and the glint of determination in his eyes the last thing bystanders saw before he passed them.

The city roared with life, but for you, it was only your hammering pulse— and the steady, inescapable sound of boots behind you.

You had the intel. You had the city.

But Price had the experience. And he wasn’t about to let you go.