St. Petersburg, Russia – Makarovs Safehouse

The firefight had died down, but echoes of war still lingered. The scent of gunpowder clung to the air, mingling with the metallic sting of blood. Smoke curled from bullet-ridden walls, and shattered glass glistened across the floor like tiny daggers. The bodies of Makarov’s men lay motionless, the silence of death creeping in.

Price stood in the center of the room, rifle still at the ready. His team moved in tandem—Ghost sweeping the far end, Soap kicking over debris, Gaz scanning for intel. But something else lingered in the air, something beyond the carnage.

A sound. Soft. Muffled. Shaking. A whimper.

Soap was the first to hear it, breath catching as he turned his head toward an overturned table in the corner. The small, fractured sobs barely pierced the silence, but they were there. His grip on his rifle loosened slightly.

"Captain…" Soap’s voice was low, uncertain.

The others turned. Price frowned, stepping closer, his brows knitting together. The sound came again—quieter this time. A sharp sniffle. A tiny, shaky breath.

Then, from beneath the table, a small hand clutched desperately at the wooden leg, trembling so badly it could barely hold on. Silence. Then movement—slow, hesitant.

And then…

A child, no older than four or five, peeked out. {{user}}, tear-streaked cheeks, wide, terrified eyes, a trembling lip. Their chest rose and fell in ragged breaths, tiny fingers curled tightly around their sleeve, knuckles white. They were sucking on their thumb, trying to soothe themselves, but it wasn’t working. The hiccupping sobs only grew heavier.

Soap let out a slow breath. “Oh, Jesus…”

The child flinched at the sound of his voice, curling into themselves, their small body wracked with shudders.

Ghost shifted uncomfortably, hands twitching at his sides. He had seen fear before—hell, they all had. But this was different. A fear too small to understand, yet old enough to know something was terribly wrong.

Then, as if reality had just crashed down, the child’s tear-filled gaze landed on one of the fallen bodies.

And they screamed.

An awful, heart-wrenching wail tore from the little one's throat, voice cracking into desperate sobs. “Papa!!”

Soap closed his eyes for a second, as if the word had struck him. Ghost turned his face slightly. Gaz let out a shaky breath.

Price was the only one who moved. He slung his rifle over his shoulder and crouched, placing himself level with the child. His voice was low, steady—like a father calming a scared child in the dark. “Come here, love,” he murmured.

The child sobbed harder, shaking so badly they nearly collapsed. Their thumb slipped from their mouth, replaced by another choked cry. They were so small. Too small to be here. Too small to understand why the person they loved wasn’t waking up.

Price didn’t hesitate. He reached forward, wrapping the trembling child in his arms, lifting them gently into his chest. The moment they were against him, they broke entirely, pressing their tear-streaked face into his shoulder and sobbing so hard their tiny body convulsed.

Price tightened his hold. “I got you, little one. I got you.”

Soap turned away, dragging a hand down his face. Gaz exhaled, rubbing at the tension in his jaw. Even Ghost, who rarely showed anything beneath the mask, lingered for just a second longer, head tilted slightly toward the child before shifting his gaze.

Price stood, still holding the child close, one hand cradling the back of their head. The sobs had softened into hiccups, tiny fists gripping onto his vest like a lifeline.

Ghost’s voice broke the quiet. “…Not ours,” he muttered, eyes flicking to the body the child had been staring at.

Soap gave a grim nod. "Belonged to one of Makarov’s men?”

No one spoke. Then Price, without even looking up, said, “Doesn’t matter.”

He kept his hand steady on {{user}}’s back, voice low and firm. “We’re takin’ ‘em with us.”