The cell stank of blood, sweat, and stale piss.

Dripping stone walls. Dim yellow lighting that flickered overhead. One small vent coughing air like it regretted being installed in this hellhole. Ghost was shackled in the corner, muscles tense, dried blood smearing his jaw. Soap had collapsed against the wall, a low groan escaping every time he breathed—his side soaked red, bandaged only with torn fabric and grit. Gaz was completely out of it next to Soap, having recived quiet an harsh gut to the head, probably concussed, and no proper care. And Price… well, he was the only one not bound. That fact alone unnerved him.

That, and the fact they were still alive.

Task Force 141 had been captured. The mission had gone sideways—horribly—caught in a web of miscalculation, ambush, and Makarov’s ruthlessness. Now they were bruised, bloodied, and thrown into a foreign prison deep in enemy territory, surrounded by silence and rot.

He paced the tiny cell, bruised and limping, glancing toward the bars every time footsteps echoed in the hall—only to fade into silence again.

“They’re not in a rush,” Price muttered, dragging a sleeve across the blood at his temple. “Which means they’re planning something.”

“Don’t suppose it’s a holiday,” Ghost growled. He tugged at his bindings again. They didn't budge.

Then Soap’s hoarse voice cut through: “Cap…”

Price turned—and followed Soap’s gaze to the far end of the room.

At first glance, they’d assumed the room was empty except for them. But in the furthest, darkest corner, just barely visible through the flickering light, hung another figure. Arms chained overhead, legs barely holding weight, body swaying just enough to reveal signs of life. The person was standing only because the chains forced them to.

“…Christ,” Ghost muttered, finally seeing it.

You.

Dressed in bloodied, unfamiliar fatigues. Not Russian. Not Task Force. Your boots were foreign. So was the insignia, torn and half-melted into the fabric from some explosion long past. Your face was obscured—head bowed, hair matted with blood, breath shallow.

Who the hell were you?

"Shite," Soap whispered hoarsely. "How long've they been here?"

You hadn’t moved since they arrived. You looked like you’d been there far longer.

“Hey,” Price called cautiously, stepping closer until the chains on your arms came into view—tight, rusted, biting into your wrists. “Hey! You with us?”

A small twitch. Barely perceptible. Barely awake

Price narrowed his eyes. You didn't look broken. Not yet. Which made no damn sense. You looked half-dead but present.

“What’s your name?” he asked, thought given the state of your body, he wasn't expecting an answer.