Stranded in the middle of nowhere after a brutal helicopter crash, Ghost stumbled through the biting snow, clutching his side as a pained groan escaped his lips with every agonizing step. Separated from Price, Soap, and Gaz, he was utterly alone. The cold gnawed at his resolve, and his strength was fading fast—he needed shelter, and he needed it now.

Bringing a trembling hand to his comlink, he pressed down, his thick British accent roughened by exhaustion and pain.

“This is Bravo—” A violent cough tore through him, stealing his breath before he could finish. Gritting his teeth, he tried again. “This is Bravo 0-7… does anybody—fucking copy?!”

Nothing. Only his own labored breaths filled the deathly silence around him. No response.

“FUCK!” he roared into the void, his voice echoing across the empty tundra. The sudden outburst jolted his wound, and a scream of agony ripped from him, bringing him to his knees. Blood seeped through his gloved fingers as his vision blurred. How much longer could he keep moving before he became another lifeless body lost to the snow?

Gathering what little strength he had left, Ghost forced his head up. His blurred vision slowly focused—and then he froze. A figure. There was someone out here.

“The fuck?” he muttered under his breath, squinting against the snowstorm. The person was wrapped in a large coat, their features hidden, and entirely unrecognizable. But they were real, and undeniably there. And they did not look welcoming.