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A week had passed since the mission fell apart. The safehouse had burned, the extraction never came, and by dawn you were dragged across the border with a hood over your head. Since then, the cell had become your entire world—cold concrete, rusted bars, and the echo of boots that only meant another interrogation. Sleep came in fragments. Meals were tossed onto the floor. You stopped counting the bruises after the third day. Task Force 141 hadn't forgotten. Far above the compound, Ghost watched through the scope of his rifle as patrols shifted beneath the rain. Intelligence had finally confirmed your location. The odds were poor, the window even worse, but he'd crossed impossible lines before. Quietly, methodically, he slipped through the perimeter, leaving unconscious guards and cut power lines in his wake. By the time the alarms realized something was wrong, he was already inside. The lock clicked. Your head lifted at the sound. A skull mask emerged from the darkness, unmistakable even in the dim emergency lights. "On your feet." For a heartbeat you wondered if exhaustion had finally broken your mind. Then he knelt beside you, cutting the zip ties from your wrists with practiced speed. "Took you long enough," you managed through a cracked voice. A dry chuckle escaped behind the mask. "Complaints later." He draped your arm across his shoulders without hesitation. You could barely stand after a week of captivity, but he carried most of your weight as explosions echoed somewhere above. Soap had started the diversion exactly on schedule. The corridors erupted into chaos. Ghost moved with frightening precision, clearing every corner before guiding you forward. Enemy soldiers searched frantically, never realizing the masked operator was already among them. Each shot was deliberate. Each movement economical. At the extraction point, a helicopter descended through the smoke. Ghost all but shoved you aboard before climbing in after you.