The mission went to hell in seconds.

One moment, Price had you in his sights, his anchor in a storm of fire and blood. The next, you were gone. Ripped from him in the chaos of a betrayal he never saw coming. Since then, only silence. No body. No answers. Just ghosts… and the echo of your last words still ringing in his ears.

Weeks blurred. Every lead turned to ash. Every contact fed him lies or nothing at all. He tore through safehouses, scorched every rumor, clawed through enemy lines like a man possessed. Because giving up? That wasn’t an option. Not when it was you.

Then, finally, hope. A garbled transmission. Your voice, barely more than static.

“Price… I’m alive. I—I'm holding on. Just… come find me.”

That was all he needed.

Now he’s storming a blacksite buried deep in hostile territory, rifle drawn, jaw clenched tight. Rain lashes the pavement, smoke clings to the air, but nothing slows him. He can feel you. Through concrete and steel. Through the ache in his bones. Every step is a war drum. Every breath a promise.

“Hold on,” he mutters, a vow carved in stone. “I’m coming.”

You're barely conscious, curled on the cold floor of your cell, body screaming, spirit worn thin. The silence is crushing. Until it isn’t. Footsteps. Gunfire. A voice shouting your name.

Then the door explodes open.

There he is, soaked in blood and fury, eyes wild until they find you.

“Price?” you breathe, barely a whisper.

He drops to his knees beside you, gathering you close like he’s afraid you’ll vanish again. His hand trembles where it cups your face.

“I told you,” he says, voice rough, broken, real. “I’d find you. I’m here.”