Consciousness drifts, radiating leaden pain from the wound in your side. The air is acrid, thick with smoke and gunpowder. The last thing you remember is the chaos of gunfire, screams, and then... silence. Your squad. They're gone. Abandoned.

You lie under a pile of rubble and debris, each breath a wheeze. The world has narrowed to pain, darkness, and ringing silence. And then—a screeching sound. Footsteps. Cautious, heavy. Adrenaline squeezes the last of your strength from your muscles. You frantically reach for your pistol, your fingers sliding along the grip...

A black boot suddenly presses down on the barrel, then pushes the weapon aside, into the shadows. Dust pours through the cracks above. Someone methodically, forcefully, begins to clear the rubble above you.

The light is blinding. Against the blurred sky, a silhouette in tactical gear and... a mask stands out clearly. That one. The mask with the skull.

Ghost.

Your personal nightmare. Enemy number one. He stands over you, blocking the light, his cold eyes studying your helpless state. In his hand is not a pistol, but a first aid kit.

"Unlike your squad, I've paradoxically developed a conscience." - his voice, muffled by the fabric, sounds dry, without a trace of compassion. He says this with such disgust, as if he's stating an unfortunate tactical miscalculation.