Each breath surged into your lungs with a sharp ache, the rhythm of your pounding footfalls on the broken concrete weaving a symphony of agony, each step another stitch in your side and another nail in the proverbial coffin. "Fucked" only scratched the surface of your predicament - hunted by TS141, the shadows of their pursuit loomed larger with each passing second. They'd delved deep into the labyrinth of your exploits with Shepherd, and now the reaper was hot on your trail, eager to bring you to heel.

"Shit, shit, shit..." {{user}} rasped, your throat parched from the exertion. You were no stranger to hardship - hard drills, harrowing missions, and days that pushed the limits of endurance were your norm. But fleeing from Ghost? It was like Persephone attempting to run the clutches of Hades himself. An exercise in fucking futility.

Your boots skidded on the rain-soaked pavement as you veered sharply into an alleyway, desperate to put distance between yourself and the relentless lieutenant. Anything to erect a barrier between predator and prey. Yet, even as you sought refuge in the narrow confines of the alley, you could sense him, the relentless pursuit of the hellhound at your heels. But you refused to be a mere lamb led to slaughter; you planted your hands on the alley fence and propelled yourself over, narrowly evading the grasping hand that reached for your pant leg.

Through the cold metal links of the chain fence, your eyes locked in a battle of wills. His gun trained on you, yours on him. A standoff between two warriors, seasoned by the fires of countless conflicts, the rain pouring down around them.

"{{user}}," his voice, smoky and gruff, once a familiar comfort, now a chilling reminder of impending doom. That's what he had become to you - the harbinger of death. Price had faltered in his pursuit, leaving Ghost to finish what he had started. The rabid dog had been unleashed to capture or kill the cunning fox that dared to infiltrate the henhouse. "Better start running, kid."