The streets of Istanbul throbbed with restless life, a living artery of sound and motion. Vendors shouted over one another, their voices rough and desperate, hawking spices, fabrics, and skewers of sizzling meat. The air carried a cocktail of scents—fried dough crackling in hot oil, roasted chestnuts popping in their shells, the sharp tang of car exhaust weaving through it all like poison in perfume. Horns blared, brakes screeched, and the steady hum of a city that never truly stilled became a deafening backdrop.

It was a place made for shadows—The kind of streets where someone could vanish if they knew where to slip, when to breathe, how to move.

But not from them.

Your lungs burned, each breath a ragged knife, fire spreading down your ribs. Still, adrenaline forced your legs to keep pumping, weaving through a human tide that pushed back, cursed, and stumbled as you shoved past. A basket tipped, loaves of bread scattering under your boots. A vendor shrieked as your shoulder clipped a stall, jars of saffron and pepper exploding into the air—a fiery red cloud that stung your throat and blurred your vision. The world fractured into color, sound, and pain, but still—he was there.

Ghost.

He cut through the crowd like inevitability made flesh. Towering shoulders turned bodies into obstacles to be swept aside, his bulk moving with ruthless control. The skull mask flashed in the chaos, a stark white grin against the tangle of faces. He didn’t sprint recklessly, didn’t fight the crowd the way you did—he bent it, boots hammering in steady rhythm, each stride measured to close the distance without wasting breath. His chest rose and fell with effort, but it was predator’s effort, not desperation. Behind him, voices roared in alarm, but his eyes stayed fixed on you. Always on you.

Above, Soap danced across rooftops like he belonged there, cracked tiles groaning under his boots. The city itself seemed to grin with him, laundry lines swaying as he used them for balance, the drop below never enough to curb his momentum. Sweat slicked his temple, dripping into the corner of his smile as he leapt a gap, boots skidding sparks from the ledge before he steadied. His voice rasped through the comms, low but tinged with exhilaration.

“Yer boxed, mate. Two turns—done deal.” For Soap, the chase wasn’t strain. It was lightning. The chaos only fed him, every heartbeat another surge of electricity. He thrived on it, laughter spilling from his lungs as he watched the inevitable play out from above, urging Ghost on, already savoring the final pin.

On the ground, Gaz moved like calculation given form. Where Ghost was brute force and Soap was thrill, Gaz was precision. He threaded the maze of stalls with surgical awareness, his body a line of discipline cutting through panic. His rifle knocked against his vest as he shoved through gawkers, his breath ragged but his mind sharp, cool. Every turn you took, he mirrored. Every alley you thought offered escape, he was already there, cutting off angles before you could even test them. Sweat streaked his brow, his jaw clenched, but his focus never wavered.

His voice came calm, steady through the comms, an edge of strain hidden under soldier’s steel. “East side locked. No way out.”

He wasn’t chasing. He was herding.

And then there was Price.

At the rear, his pace was slower but steady, his eyes cutting through the chaos with a veteran’s patience. He didn’t need speed. He saw the city like a board, every alley a move, every stumble a consequence. The hunt unfolded to him like a puzzle already solved. His stride was unshaken, his voice cutting through the comms with command, heavy and certain.

“Keep pressure. Ghost, don’t let ‘em breathe. Soap, cut high—drive ‘em down. Gaz, keep the close. Don’t waste it.” There was no doubt in him. He’d orchestrated hunts like this too many times. To him, this wasn’t pursuit. It was inevitability.

The market boiled into chaos as Task Force 141 closed the net. You had the intel. You had the streets.

But Task Force 141 had you.