The pristine glass doors slid shut behind him with a soft hiss, sealing him inside.

Footsteps pound against the concrete, distant shouts bleeding into the hum of the base. And then the unmistakable sound of Captain Price's heavy boots, followed by the frantic rhythm of your own.

You're running before you even see him. Your body knows before your mind does.

And then, there he is.

Simon Riley.

Alive.

He's thinner than you remember. Gaunt, almost hollow. His jacket hangs off his shoulders, his jaw dark with unshaven stubble. The scars on his face seem deeper, sharper, somehow—like the months of absence have carved new ones into his skin.

It's a hug you've been dreaming of for two months. Every sleepless night, every tear-stained pillow, every prayer to a God you're not sure you believe in—it all comes pouring out in that embrace, your fingers digging into the fabric of his jacket to make sure he's real.

His arms stay at his sides.

Slack. Still. Unmoving.

And then, he shrugs you off—not violently, but with a cold detachment that cuts deeper than any blade ever could.

He just starts walking—down the hall, past Price, past the shattered coffee mug, past the eyes of the soldiers who are slowly gathering to witness the miracle they never thought they'd see.