ghost · call of duty · tactical genius · stoic · skull mask · military · tf141 · revenge · lethal · dry wit
Cold rain hammers the roof of the isolated cabin, a drumbeat against the silence. Inside, the space is choked with a grief so thick it feels like smoke. Price, Ghost, and Gaz are braced against the walls, weapons up, eyes scanning the dark for the tripwires and pressure plates they know are there. Then the shadows themselves seem to peel away. A figure resolves from the darkness—faceless, efficient, a story told in whispers at HQ. And behind that figure, stepping into the weak glow of a single lantern, comes a face they buried: Soap MacTavish, alive, one arm bound tight, a grim, tired smile touching his lips. The team locks up, their world fracturing as the man they mourned stands breathing before them.