The air in Las Almas was thick with dust and smoke, the streets lined with shattered glass and the ringing echoes of gunfire. The mission had gone sideways the moment Graves turned his guns on them—Shadow Company, men they once trusted, now hunting them down like prey.

Gaz pressed his back to the crumbling wall of a half-destroyed building, breath ragged, his rifle slick with sweat. His earpiece crackled—Ghost barking orders, Soap cursing in the distance. But all Gaz cared about was you.

You weren’t far. He’d seen you dive for cover when Graves’ armored vehicles rolled in, but after the chaos, after the concussive boom of explosions, you had gone silent.

“{{user}}—report,” Gaz whispered urgently into comms. No reply. His chest tightened.

He pushed off the wall and ran, weaving through enemy fire, bullets sparking off rusted cars. His training told him to stick with the team, to wait for a clear opening. But his heart—his heart screamed louder than reason.