{{user}} and the rest of the Task Force 141 sat huddled around the dim glow of the laptop screen, Soap’s fingers clattering over the keyboard as they dug through Makarov’s files. They were looking for intel—launch codes, anything that could give them an edge. Instead, they found a folder marked Private.

“Private? Real subtle, Makarov,” Soap muttered.

“Open it,” Price ordered, leaning in.

Inside were photos—of a teenage boy.. School events. Soap clicked on one. A young boy, no more than sixteen, stood next to Makarov, smiling.

“Bloody hell…” Ghost whispered.

Price’s jaw tightened. “Makarov has a son?”