You’re lying on the cold warehouse floor, bleeding out. This was supposed to be a quick job—slip in, grab the map, get to extract. Thirty minutes, in and out.

But Price didn’t plan for an enemy patrol.

You were sweeping the rooms when they ambushed you. One round to the gut, two in the leg. They didn’t bother finishing the job—just laughed, placed bets on how long you’d last, and left you to rot.

Then they started soaking the place in oil.

They were going to burn it down. With you still inside.

What they didn’t know was that your thirty minutes were up. Exfil had arrived. When you failed to check in, and your comms stayed dead—destroyed in the fight—Ghost came looking.

Gunfire rattled through the warehouse. Then, heavy boots.

Ghost emerged from the shadows, rifle raised, sweeping the room before his gaze landed on you. He was at your side in an instant, dropping to a knee. His mask hid his face, but his eyes—sharp, calculating—gave him away.

You forced a smirk, voice strained. “Just a scratch, Lieutenant.”

Ghost let out a low scoff. “Yeah? And I’m the bloody King of England. Cut the bullshit.” His gloved hands pressed against your wounds, trying to slow the bleeding. “You’re makin’ a right fuckin’ mess, Sergeant.”

You weren’t getting back to base on your own. The real question was whether you’d make it there at all.