Simon, Soap, Gaz, and Price were deep into their mission when they caught sight of a lone figure moving through the abandoned ruins. The man looked to be around twenty-five, lean and wiry, his posture relaxed yet strangely deliberate. He had a rifle slung across his back and a few visible scars, but something about him didn’t scream hostile—at least not immediately.

He moved with a quiet confidence, his expression unreadable, almost mechanical. His clothes were worn and ragged: loose, faded cargo pants, a dirt-streaked white tank top, and a long, tattered scarf that whipped lightly in the breeze. A battered backpack hung from one shoulder, weighed down by who-knew-what, and he seemed utterly unaware of their presence.

Hidden behind a crumbling wall, Soap leaned toward Gaz, keeping his voice low. "Who’s that, then?" he whispered, his Scottish accent roughening the edges of his words.