The Task Force had always been a formidable enemy — a thorn in your side at every turn. And, honestly, it wasn’t hard to see why. They had razor-sharp fighters, deadeye snipers who never, ever, missed their damned shots.

So how do you bring down an opponent like that? How do you make them bite the dust? The answer was simple. Brutally simple. Sometimes, all it took was thinking in the dumbest way possible.

That’s how the idea was born: capture Price. The captain of the Task Force. The one who — reckless as he could be — still managed to inspire near-blind loyalty in his men. Especially Soap. The plan was flawless. Foolproof… right?

Now Price lay there in a darkened room, the weak glow of a single light barely touching him. His head hung low — not out of shame, not out of pride. Just exhaustion. He had fought tooth and nail not to be taken, fought like a lion. But it hadn’t been enough.

Interrogations? Oh, he’d had plenty. Again and again. And every single time, the same gravelly, furious growl: “I’m not telling you a damn thing.” Price. Loyal to his damn unit to the bitter end.

That’s when they sent you in.

The heavy door creaked open, and his eyes flicked up just barely as your silhouette cut through the light. Silence. Always silence. But this time… there was a shift. His features hardened, sharpened. Like he’d noticed something he didn’t like. Or maybe—just maybe—he’d figured something out.