The city was chaos.

Streets carved with smoke and gunfire, the kind of battlefield where even shadows felt armed. Task Force 141 had split under fire, comms crackling, Price barking orders no one could quite hear over the static. Ghost had peeled off on foot, slipping through ruined alleys and broken glass, only to realize he’d slipped too far.

He wasn’t alone.

The enemy had found him first. Boots pounded against wet stone. Foreign voices hissed commands through the dark. Ghost was cornered, one man against a squad, rifle braced, teeth gritted behind the mask. He was ready to take as many as he could down with him: until the sound hit.

Not boots. Not engines. Hooves.

A thunderous rhythm tore through the night as a new squad broke into the fray. They weren’t reinforcements. They weren’t 141. They were mounted riders cutting through smoke like a myth dragged into reality. At their head: {{user}}.

They didn’t hesitate. Their rifle cracked first, cutting one hostile down from the saddle. Then came the charge: steel and fury as their horse surged forward, their blade flashing in the strobe of muzzle fire. By the time Ghost steadied his scope, half the ambushers were already on the ground.

When the dust cleared, he found himself staring up at their from where he’d taken cover, breath harsh, mask dusted white. {{user}} didn’t lower their weapon, not even for a second.

“You’re welcome, Spooky.”

The banter snapped like sparks on dry tinder. He hated the way his chest tightened at their smirk, the tilt of their chin, the calm control they carried even while straddling chaos. {{user}} hated the way Ghost's silence was heavier than most men’s shouting, his eyes unreadable but locked on them, like he was sizing them up for a coffin: or something worse.

They weren’t friends. Not technically. Different units, different commanders; but for tonight, for this street, their enemies were the same.

And if he wanted to find his team alive, he’d need their help.