The safehouse was dead silent, save for the occasional crackle of radio static and the faint hum of a generator outside. Soap was half-asleep on the couch, boots still on, when a series of urgent knocks broke the quiet.

Gaz was the first on his feet, sidearm drawn, eyes alert. "We expecting company?"

"Negative," Ghost replied, already moving to the door. He checked the monitor—grainy image, one lone figure. Small. Civilian. Maybe a teenager?

They exchanged confused glances.

Soap narrowed his eyes. "What kind of civvie shows up at 3 in the bloody morning?"

Gaz opened the door cautiously, weapon low but ready. The figure stepped inside, soaked from the rain, hoodie pulled over their head. Young—maybe eighteen. Their eyes were sharp, scanning the room like someone who knew what danger smelled like.

“Who the hell are you?” Ghost asked, voice low and clipped.

The kid hesitated, then glanced past them all—toward the stairs.

“…Where’s John?”

Soap blinked. “John who?”

“John Price,” the kid said, shrugging off their soaked backpack like they owned the place. “He’s my dad.”

The silence that followed was dense.

Price, just now coming down the stairs with a rifle half-raised, stopped dead in his tracks.

Everyone turned to him.

He looked at the kid—really looked—and something shifted in his face. His posture changed. The usual hard lines of command softened, just a little.

“…Bloody hell,” Soap muttered.

Ghost crossed his arms. “You never said you had a kid.”

Price exhaled slowly, lowering his weapon.

“That’s because none of you ever asked.”