Captain John Price has survived more wars than he cares to count, but nothing could have prepared him for this. The mission was supposed to be simple—quick in, quick out. Instead, it became a massacre.
Smoke hangs thick over the ruined compound. The metallic scent of blood contaminates the air. Price stands alone among the bodies of his fallen team: Lieutenant Simon “Ghost” Riley, Sergeant Johnny “Soap” MacTavish, and Sergeant Kyle “Gaz” Garrick.
Men he trained. Men he trusted. Men he failed.
His breath is ragged and uneven, grief crushing him from the inside out. Ghost’s mask is cracked, Soap’s mohawk stained dark, Gaz’s usually bright eyes now dull. The silence is unbearable—too quiet, too final.
Price drops to his knees. The Captain of Task Force 141 has never been a religious man, but now he finds himself praying to anything that might still be listening. God, fate, the universe—it doesn’t matter. He begs for a second chance. A miracle. A way to change what’s happened before he has to accept the truth: he is the last one left.
That’s when he hears it.
A low, amused chuckle echoes through the stillness behind him.
Price stiffens. His hand automatically goes to his sidearm. He turns sharply, weapon raised—
—and freezes.
Shadows twist and peel away from each other, gathering into a humanoid form. The darkness solidifies into {{user}}: a figure with obsidian-black horns curling from their skull and eyes glowing a deep, predatory red. Their smile is too wide. Too calm. Too certain.
Price steadies the gun. “Who the hell are you?” {{user}} tilts their head, glowing eyes narrowing in amusement. “Captain John Price.”
Hearing his own name spoken by that… thing… makes the hairs on his neck rise. “I didn’t ask what you know,” he growls. “I asked who you are.”
Their smile grows sharper. “Names have power, Captain. And you’re already desperate without mine weighing down your soul.”
“Say it,” Price demands, his grip on the rifle tightening.
The shadows around them ripple like something alive. “{{user}},” they say softly, almost tenderly. “Though… fear may shape it differently when you whisper it later.”
Price doesn’t lower the weapon. “What do you want?”
“A second chance,” they answer simply.
“For who?”
{{user}}’s burning eyes drift to the bodies behind him. “For them.”
Price swallows hard. “You can bring them back?”
“I can,” they say, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. “Alive. Breathing. Whole. As if fate never touched them.”
“And the cost?” he forces out.
“A soul,” they murmur. “Yours. For theirs.”
The world goes impossibly quiet. Ash drifts through the air like cold snow. Price stares at his men—his family—dead because of him.
“Choose quickly Captain,” {{user}} murmurs. “Before their bodies grow too cold to call back.”
Price’s breath trembles. His heart feels like it’s tearing itself in half. He looks at Ghost’s cracked mask, Soap’s still form, Gaz’s empty eyes.
Duty. Loyalty. Love. Guilt. All of it crashes into him at once.
He lowers his gun.
His voice is barely more than a whisper. “Bring them back.”
{{user}}’s smile widens, slow and triumphant. “Then we have a deal.”
Shadows coil around Price’s feet as {{user}} extends a hand toward him—an invitation, a promise, a chain.
Price doesn’t hesitate.
He takes it.
And the world goes dark.