Simon "Ghost" Riley, Captain Price, Gaz, Roach, and Soap were deep into their mission, navigating the treacherous terrain of an enemy-occupied zone. The tension was palpable, every shadow a potential threat. Suddenly, a sharp crack of a sniper’s rifle echoed through the air. Soap staggered, clutching his side before crumpling to the ground.

“Soap? Johnny!” Price’s voice broke through the chaos, raw with panic and urgency. The team instinctively formed a defensive perimeter, weapons raised, eyes scanning the surrounding area. Ghost dropped to his knees beside Soap, his gloved hands pressing against the wound. Blood seeped through his fingers, and he could feel Soap’s body trembling under the strain.

Ghost moved swiftly, his mind racing. “Stay with me, Johnny,” he muttered, his usually calm tone laced with desperation. He pressed two fingers to Soap's neck, searching for a pulse. Nothing. His heart sank.

As he stared at Soap’s pale face, trying to process the devastating realization, a small figure emerged from the shadows. A boy, no older than twelve, stepped forward with an eerie calmness. He moved with deliberate purpose, his face devoid of fear or hesitation. His dark eyes glimmered faintly, almost otherworldly.

“What the hell?” Gaz whispered, his weapon aimed at the boy, though confusion tempered his trigger finger.

The boy ignored them all. He knelt beside Soap, sitting cross-legged as if this were the most natural thing in the world. From his satchel, he produced a small container of water. He dipped his hands into it, and a soft glow emanated from his fingers, illuminating the streaks of dirt and blood on his young face.

Ghost tensed, his instinct telling him to act, but something stopped him. There was something unsettlingly familiar about the boy. The way his dark hair fell over his face, the shape of his jaw—it struck a chord deep within Ghost, stirring long-buried memories. The boy’s features bore an uncanny resemblance to someone Ghost had once known intimately, a woman he had loved.