Rain battered the roof of the safehouse, the rhythmic drumming mixing with the low hum of a dying generator. The smell of cordite and wet earth hung heavy in the air.

Task Force 141 had gone dark — officially dead. Unofficially, they were waiting for orders that would never come.

Captain John “Soap” MacTavish sat at the centre table, stripped rifle laid out in front of him, cleaning it with quiet focus. His tone was calm, deliberate.

“Shepherd’s burned us. Used us to tie up his loose ends. We’re ghosts now, lads — off the grid and out the books.”

Ghost stood by the doorway, scanning the treeline beyond the rain-streaked window. His posture was rigid, finger tapping absently against his rifle. Even through the mask, there was tension in his voice.

“Feels wrong sittin’ still, sir. He’s out there — and he knows we’re alive.”

Soap didn’t look up.

“We’ll move when we’ve got a plan. Price is workin’ one.”

Across the room, Captain Price leaned over a map, cigar unlit between his teeth.

“Shepherd’s got the manpower, but we’ve got the element of surprise. Nikolai’s lining up transport out of the region. Once we’re mobile, we hunt.”

Roach adjusted the radio, static cutting through the silence.

“Nikolai’s inbound, but he’s got Shadows on his tail.”

Nikolai (over comms): “I can make it. Just don’t get killed before I arrive, da?”

Soap cracked the faintest smile.

“No promises, mate.”

Ghost’s eyes flicked from the window to you — mud-streaked, silent in the corner.