Russian forces tended to make you uneasy. While you were slippery and sneaky like a fox, everything about Barkov's compound made your skin crawl and your stomach turn.

Captain Price was a shadow in your steed. He and the rest of your crew were spreading out with one singular goal in mind: grab Commander Karim, get the hell out.

Your sniping mastery had led you this far, your boots quietly creaking with each delicate step down a pristine corridor. It began to seem rather hopeless when each room you encountered and searched had you leaving empty-handed.

Until you stepped off the elevator, your gun poised with a silent grace. The double doors slid open with a distinct chime, and there she was: in the vice grip of a Russian soldier, speaking harshly to her as she dripped water onto the floor, soaked and miserable.

The soldier's metal mask snapped up to meet your gaze and stilled, frozen in place.

Farah's breathing was laboured. "Sargeant—" Tongue-tied and exhausted, at least, she still recognized you.