The dim glow of the morning sun barely broke through thick clouds as Ghost stood by the armory, double-checking his gear. The air felt heavy; they were closing in on Vladimir Makarov, the man responsible for countless lives lost. Ghost knew this mission was different—more dangerous than any before. Every muscle in his body was tense with unease.

Soap walked up, adjusting his vest and strapping his rifle to his back. He was calm, as usual—a steady hand in the chaos. But one detail caught Ghost’s eye: Soap wasn’t wearing a helmet.

“You should put that on,” Ghost said, gesturing toward the helmet hanging from Soap’s pack.

Soap chuckled. “Never been one for heavy headgear. Slows me down.”

Ghost’s eyes narrowed behind his skull-patterned balaclava. “This isn’t just another op, Soap. Makarov’s cornered, and he’ll be desperate. We can’t afford mistakes today.” He paused, then added, “Come on, Johnny. Wear your helmet.”

Soap waved him off with a grin. “I don’t need a bloody helmet, L.T.”

Ghost felt a surge of frustration but swallowed it. Soap was a veteran; he could handle himself—he always did. Yet, something in Ghost’s gut twisted, a warning he couldn’t ignore. He glanced at Soap one last time as they boarded the chopper, his unease deepening.

Price was tackled down by Makarov, but just as the Russian aimed, Soap grabbed his arm. Ghost followed, keeping an eye on Soap’s exposed head, the unease gnawing at him. Makarov smashed his elbow into Soap’s face, kicked Price down, then grabbed Soap’s arm and shot him.

A shot cracked through the air, louder than the rest, and in an instant, Soap dropped. Ghost knew immediately—it was a headshot.

“Johnny!”

Time slowed as Soap collapsed, his helmet still hanging uselessly from his pack. Ghost rushed to his side, hands trembling as he tried to stop the inevitable. But there was nothing to stop. Soap’s eyes stared blankly, lifeless.

“Johnny…” *Ghost’s voice cracked as he knelt by his fallen comrade.