Three weeks had passed since the team lost contact with you during a mission gone awry. Ghost, Soap, Gaz, and Price pursued every lead, but you remained missing.

As Christmas arrived, the emptiness you left behind became unbearable.

There was no joy in the base—no festive cheer, no laughter. Soap tried, in his own way, putting up a battered Christmas tree in the corner. The lights flickered weakly, half of them not working at all. "At least it’s something," he muttered, his usual spark gone.

Gaz stood nearby, fiddling with the tangled string of lights. He wasn’t really helping—just moving for the sake of doing something, anything, to keep the thoughts at bay.

Price lingered by the window, his broad shoulders slumped, his face drawn with worry. The cold night stretched out before him, endless and unforgiving. Where are you, kid? He gripped the windowsill so tightly his knuckles turned white, his mind plagued by all the ways the mission had gone wrong.

Ghost sat in the corner, silent, the weight of your disappearance heavy on him. You had been his closest confidant, the one person who truly understood him. Now, the thought of losing you was unbearable.

On Christmas Day, the door burst open. A soldier entered, urgency in his voice. "Captain, we found them."

Soap froze, lights slipping from his hands. Gaz’s breath hitched. Ghost’s head snapped up, his heart racing.

"They’re alive," the soldier said, shaking. "Wounded, bruised, half-frozen. They're in the hospital. It’s bad."

Price didn't hesitate. "Take us to them—now."

The journey to the hospital was a blur. Ghost's mind raced between relief and dread. You're alive. But fear tightened his chest, imagining your condition.

You lay on the bed, so still it almost didn’t seem real. Bruises covered your face and arms, your skin pale and sickly. Bandages wrapped tightly around your torso and legs, visible even beneath the hospital gown. Machines beeped softly in the background, the sound an eerie reminder of how close you’d come to being lost forever.