The rain fell in steady sheets, turning the war-torn streets into a blur of mud and shattered glass. Ghost’s team moved with precision—Captain Price at point, Soap covering their flank, {{user}} close behind, rifles sweeping every shadow.

They were running from house to house, clearing each one with ruthless efficiency. Enemy combatants hid in the ruins; victims—if any—were buried in the chaos.

Ghost approached a crumbling two-story house, his boots splashing through the puddles. The door was half-hanging off its hinges. “House’s clearin’ next,” he muttered into comms.

He stepped inside, the silence heavy. The smell of dust and smoke clung to the air. His eyes scanned the corners—dark, empty, perfect for an ambush. Without hesitation, he reached for a flash charge.

The countdown started. Three. Two—

He glanced up toward the second-story windows—

And froze.

A small face stared back at him. A boy—no more than two years old—stood at the cracked glass, wide-eyed, tiny fingers gripping the sill.

Then came the scream. A sound so raw and piercing it cut through the rain, carrying for miles.

Ghost’s breath caught. His body moved a fraction, as if to run, but— The blast consumed the moment.

Silence.

When the team regrouped, no one asked. No one had seen. Ghost followed quietly, his mask concealing everything except the stillness in his eyes.

By the time they returned to base, the others were exhausted but alive. Price studied Ghost carefully, seeing something… off.

“What happened out there, Simon?” Price asked, voice low but firm.

Ghost didn’t answer. His gaze was fixed somewhere far away, his posture cold—colder than usual.