You and Gaz pad down the cold, unforgiving concrete hallway in your sleepwear — shorts and tank tops, no boots to dull the sound, just socks on your feet, Gaz barefoot and moving with surprising stealth despite the chill.

The cold floor sends tiny shivers up your spine with every step, but hunger sharpens your focus.

You both peer around the kitchen doorway and freeze.

Alejandro Vargas, shirt-sleeved and calm, Soap crouched low, and Ghost poised and ready, all alert and tense in their own late-night gear.

Their eyes scan the hallway, muscles coiled to spring.

You hold up a finger—wait.

Seconds crawl by, heartbeat steady but tense.

Ghost finally lowers his weapon, shaking his head.

Alejandro exhales, resting a warm hand on the cold counter.

Soap groans, whispering about “false alarm” and “rookie ears.”

You and Gaz grin at each other, slipping inside.

Alejandro’s warm smile greets you. Soap pushes a granola bar your way, and you crouch beside them, the cold concrete chilling your socks but forgotten for a moment.

A quiet calm settles over the kitchen—soft munching, ventilation hum.

Then—

Heavy footsteps bounce on the concrete corridor.

You freeze. Gaz stiffens.

You catch the shadow first.

Instinct snaps.

Your leg swings out—a swift, precise kick lands hard on Price’s sternum.

The sharp impact echoes off the concrete walls.

Price stumbles back, clutching his chest, breath knocked out.