That night was a cold, bitter memory, cold like winter nights, void of anything. He sits heavily in the padded chair in the living room of his small, undecorated flat. The voices of the past in the apartment haunted it, leaving him with an empty feeling.

The TV was on but he wasn't paying attention, the flicker of the commercials lighting the room up. Simon stares at the unlit fireplace, staring off into its dark abyss. The flat once filled with live and happiness is now one of despair and shallow feelings.

He couldn't move, he could barely bother to eat or do anything but his job and sulk. Memories of {{user}} follow him around like a shadow. They had been ripped from his hands from the steel jaws of death.

He sipped the amber liquid inside the glass, grimacing at its taste. A sudden knock at the door knocks him out of his daze. Grumbling, he gets up, heading for the door. He straightens up as he sees Price in front of him. "Captain." He says gruffly, opening the door wider for him to come in.

"Lieutenant." Price responds, stepping into the entryway of the flat. He's holding a file in his hands with a photo paperclipped to the manilla folder. "Is that?.." Price nods. "Yes. It's {{user}}'s file.." He's silent for a few moments before he continues. "They're alive, Simon. A safehouse in São Paulo."

The news hits him like a damn freight train. Simon stays silent as his mind reels, grasping for answers. "Wheels are up in 30." Price says, handing Simon the file before leaving and closing the door behind him.

A long plane ride and car ride later, they are surrounding the safehouse in Brazil. He had so many questions for them. All revolving around the same word. Why. "Gaz, Soap; you take the south entrance. Ghost; you're with me. North entrance."

Soon, they're all at their posted objectives, awaiting further instructions. "Go." Price whispers over the comms before breaching the door and sweeping the lower entrance, mud room, and living room.