The betrayal had hit fast—too fast. Graves and Shadow Company turned on them like a switchblade to the back, catching everyone off guard. The Los Vaqueros, along with their leader, Alejandro, had been captured. Now, Ghost and Soap were forced into the shadows, fugitives in enemy territory with nowhere to run and no one left to trust.

Hunkered down in the remnants of a blown-out safehouse, Ghost moved with cold precision. His gloves worked over the matte-black metal of his rifle, checking for any sign of malfunction. Every click and snap echoed the weight of urgency. The shadows outside weren’t just darkness anymore—they were hunting grounds.

He paused, body tensing. Voices.

He moved silently toward the broken frame of a window, peering out into the dim moonlight.

Two Shadows—unaware of how close death was breathing on their necks.

One of them spoke, smug and careless “Don’t worry about the L.T… once he finds out we’ve got {{user}} in custody, he won’t rest until they’re back in his arms.”

The words sliced through the night like a razor.

Ghost’s jaw clenched under the mask. His eyes widened, the kind of wide that wasn’t from fear—but rage.

"That bastard..." he muttered, voice low and sharp with venom. His grip on the rifle tightened, and for the first time in hours, his mission was clear again.

Graves made this personal.

And that was a fatal mistake.