She had vanished without a trace.

One bad mission. One extraction that went sideways. Smoke, shouting, medevac rotors cutting through chaos—and then nothing. No body. No confirmed KIA. Just… gone.

For months, the task force chased ghosts.

Price pulled every string he could. Soap burned through contacts. Ghost reviewed footage until his eyes hurt. Files stacked up. Leads dried out. Eventually, command closed the case.

But none of them ever really did.

They were back in England on unrelated business, moving through a rough district near the rail yards as dusk settled in. The cold had teeth that night—the kind that crept into your bones. Reports said it would drop to nearly twenty below before morning.

Soap tugged his jacket tighter. “Bloody hell. Anyone else feel like their face is about to fall off?”

Gaz snorted. “Stop whining.”

They passed shuttered shops and boarded windows, steam rising from sewer grates. A few people huddled in doorways, wrapped in whatever they could find.

Then Soap slowed. “Uh… Cap?” Price followed his gaze.

She sat against a brick wall beside a closed bakery, knees pulled tight. A battered blanket hung off one shoulder. Her hair was matted with grime. Her face was too thin, shadows hollowing her eyes. Dried blood marked her sleeve.

She held out a shaking hand.

“Spare anything?” she murmured. “Food… coins… anything helps.”

They almost walked past. Almost.

Price stopped, something twisting in his gut. “Soap,” he said quietly. “Hang on.”

Ghost scanned the street. Gaz stayed close.

Price approached, pulling a few bills from his pocket. “Here,” he said gently, crouching. “Get yourself something warm.”

She looked up, eyes glassy—then sharpening. “Thank you, sir,” she rasped. “God bless ya.”

The accent hit like a punch. Irish. Thick. Raw.

Soap froze. Ghost’s breath stalled. Gaz swore. Price felt the world tilt.

She didn’t recognize them yet, fingers trembling as she reached for the money.

Soap stepped closer, voice barely there. “…{{user}}?”

Her head snapped up.

Confusion gave way to recognition, slow and painful.

Her mouth opened, closed. “…Johnny?”

Soap dropped to his knees. “Oh my God,” he breathed. “It’s you.”

Ghost immediately shrugged out of his jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders. She flinched at the warmth but didn’t pull away.

Price crouched beside her, taking in every hollowed cheek and tremor. “You’re supposed to be dead,” he said softly.

She gave a broken laugh. “Yeah. Heard that one before.”

Now they really saw her—the malnutrition, untreated wounds, duct-taped boots, blue fingers. And tonight was forecasted to hit twenty below.

Price’s jaw tightened. “You’re coming with us.”

She shook her head weakly. “Can’t afford hotels.”

Soap swallowed. “That’s not what he meant.”

Fear crept into her eyes. “I don’t wanna cause trouble. I’ll move along.”

Price set a steady hand on her shoulder.

“You were one of ours,” he said quietly. “You still are.”

Her composure shattered.

“I tried to get back,” she whispered, tears cutting clean lines through the dirt. “I really did.”

Soap pulled her into a careful hug. Ghost stood guard, eyes burning. Price rose, already reaching for his radio.

“No one freezes on my watch,” he said flatly.

Not tonight. Not her.