The house is quiet, save for the hum of old fluorescent lights and the distant rumble of thunder outside. Price strides in, the door slamming shut behind him with a sharp bang that makes Ghost glance up from his rifle cleaning. Soap barely lifts his head from the mission intel, but Gaz sets his coffee down—something in Price’s posture says this isn’t just another briefing.

“Right.” Price’s voice is gravel, rougher than usual. He doesn’t sit. Just reaches into his coat and slaps a worn file onto the table. It skids toward them, scattering empty shell casings and crumpled maps.

“Been thinkin’…” He exhales, like the words taste bitter. “We’re stretched thin. Lost too many. And if we’re going to survive what’s coming—” His jaw tightens, eyes flicking to the memorial wall of dog tags pinned near the door—names they all know by heart. “—we need someone who can keep up.”

Ghost flips the file open. A grainy surveillance photo stares back—some lone wolf, scars and shadows under their eyes. Soap lets out a sharp breath. “The hell did you dig this one up from, Cap?”

“Same place they found us,” Price growls, lighting a cigar with deliberate slowness. “The ruins.”

Silence hangs. Gaz taps the file. “You sure about this?”

“No.” Price exhales smoke, his voice dropping lower. “But war doesn’t wait for ‘sure.’”