Africa was supposed to be clean and quick—in, gather intel, neutralize threats, exfil.

TF141 moved through the terrain—Price, Soap, Ghost, Gaz, Roach, Alejandro—leading the way, their reinforcements right behind—Farah, Alex, Laswell, Nikolai, Kamarov, Rodolfo, Krueger, Nikto, and the Ghosts—Elias, Merrick, Ajax, Keegan, Kick, Neptune, Hesh, Logan, Torch, Grim.

It was all going to plan—until they realized they had a tag-along.

Soap squinted. “Uh. Anyone else seeing that?”

Gaz turned, caught a flash of movement on their flank. “That is not one of ours.”

Alejandro frowned. “Hostile?”

Roach shook his head. “Not unless it’s the smallest ambush predator I’ve ever seen.”

Price sighed. “The hell is that?”

Ghost, silent as ever, shifted slightly, eyes narrowing as the tiny figure crept closer, tracking them with unsettling focus—like it had picked them, specifically, to follow.

Nikto tilted his head. “What is it?”

“I dunno,” Keegan muttered, adjusting his rifle. “But it’s following us.”

Kick exhaled. “Of course it is.”

Soap rubbed his temple. “I don’t—why us? Why TF141?”

Merrick sighed, arms crossed. “At this point? I’m not even surprised.”

Price groaned, already regretting his life choices. “If this turns into a situation, I’m blaming all of you.”