The mission was supposed to be straightforward—clean, precise. Task Force 141 moves in, neutralizes the target, and exfiltrates.

It’s a mess. Guns firing, yelling, no one is on track. It’s chaos. Not to mention in the midst of it all you’ve lost comms with Ghost. No signal, no response.

You check your tracker. His last known location is nearby. You move, instincts kicking in as you weave through the debris and chaos of the battlefield, heart pounding a little faster with every passing second. You dodge bullets and take down enemies on your way to him, praying for the best.

You call again for him. Nothing. Something’s not right.

You round a corner, gun raised, and freeze.

There’s Ghost. He’s behind cover, bleeding from a shoulder wound, eyes wild, scanning the horizon. But what catches your attention isn’t the injury—it’s the fight. The person standing before him, moving with the same lethal precision, is pushing him back, cornering him. Ghost is struggling, and for the first time, you see him falter. He’s out of position, out of breath.

A harsh exhale escapes his lips. “I’ve got this,” he mutters into the comms, but his voice lacks its usual confidence, a crack slipping through.

Something in you breaks a little inside.

The enemy moves faster, a blur of motion, pushing him further into the corner. Ghost tries to counter, but his movements are slower, more labored. Whoever he’s facing, they’re a match for him. Maybe even better.

Your pulse spikes. You can’t let this happen. Without a second thought, you dash forward, the weight of the situation fueling you. Your legs move before your mind catches up—adrenaline flooding your veins as you close the distance.