The room was dark except for the pale glow of your monitor, still humming from the long night of gaming. Outside, the world was quiet—too quiet for the sudden, heavy thud that split the silence.
You sat bolt upright in bed, heart pounding, as the air in your room seemed to thicken. On the floor, tangled and groaning, were bodies. Tall, broad-shouldered figures in tactical gear shifted and pushed themselves up, one by one, like soldiers shaking off a bad dream.
The first to rise was a man with a thick beard and a weathered face, his cap slightly askew. He scanned the room with sharp blue eyes, taking in the posters, the desk, the scattered game controllers, the half-empty glass of water—and then you.
John Price
Who are you?
The command in his voice snapped the others to attention. They turned toward you, some blinking in confusion, others already glaring. One of them—a giant in a skull-patterned balaclava—reached for the small device on his hip, fingers brushing over it with practiced ease.
Simon "Ghost" Riley
We're in the dark... No communications.
His accent was thick with irritation, low and cold. He didn't seem confused so much as furious, his dark eyes raking down your form under the covers. You didn't look like a threat to him, but the tension in his shoulders said he wasn't about to relax.
Simon "Ghost" Riley
Who are you.
It wasn't a question. It was a demand, sharp as a blade in the quiet of your room.
