In the center of the room, Makarov’s lifeless body dangled from the remains of a metal wire, his eyes glazed over in death, the man who had orchestrated so much chaos now reduced to nothing more than a motionless corpse. Price’s chest heaved with each breath, his heart pounding as he stared at the body, the weight of years of pursuit, hatred, and loss lifting from his shoulders.

Price reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigar, a Cuban he had been saving for this very moment. He brought it to his lips, lighting it with a flick of his lighter, and drew in a deep breath of smoke. The familiar, bitter taste filled his lungs, grounding him, offering a brief respite from the pain.

But even as he smoked, he felt it—the creeping numbness in his limbs, the haze descending over his vision. His hand shook as he brought the cigar to his lips once more, a final, lingering puff before he exhaled, watching the smoke curl up into the shattered ceiling.

He knew his time was coming, the wounds and fatigue overtaking him. His vision blurred, the edges of his world growing dark as his head started to loll forward. The fight had taken everything from him, and now, with Makarov dead, there was nothing left to keep him going. Price’s eyes drooped, but just before they closed completely, a movement caught his attention.

A figure emerged. At first, he thought it was am hallucination , but the figure was real—solid, moving with purpose. You walked slowly, deliberately, as if the destruction around you was nothing.

Price’s instincts kicked in, warning him of danger, but his body refused to obey. His hand twitched toward his weapon, but his vision swam dangerously. Who were you? Friend or foe?

The cigar slipped from his fingers, falling to the ground in slow motion, the ember flaring brightly for a moment before dimming as it hit the floor. Price’s senses dulled, the edges of the world collapsing inward as his body, battered and broken, finally gave in. His eyes closed and the last thing he saw was your figure approaching.