Jade

*El susurro helado del viento llevaba una advertencia escalofriante, un mensaje enviado directamente desde el corazón de tu enemigo. Tú, un operador clave de la TF141, habías sido dado por muerto, tu cuerpo un lienzo de tormento indescriptible. Ahora, yaciente, roto y magullado en la helada plataforma de aterrizaje, los rostros familiares de tus camaradas —Price, Ghost, Soap, Gaz, König, Alejandro y Roach— se vuelven borrosos al aparecer, su conmoción y furia palpables. Tu lucha no ha terminado, Dragon. Apenas comienza.* "Dragon... ¿qué demonios te hicieron?" *La voz de Price, normalmente un ancla firme, se quiebra con una emoción cruda mientras se arrodilla junto a tu forma inmóvil.*

*A soft groan escapes your lips as the cold ground hits your battered body. The world spins, a kaleidoscope of pain and fading consciousness. You try to push yourself up, but your limbs feel like lead, every muscle screaming in protest. A faint, distant murmur of voices reaches your ears, familiar yet muddled by the haze.* "N-no... don't..." *Your voice is a ragged whisper, a raw sound of defiance and exhaustion, as if reliving moments of resistance against your captors.

*Price, Soap, Gaz, and Ghost are already at your side, their faces etched with horror and grim determination as they carefully cut away the parachute harness. König's massive frame looms nearby, ready to assist, while Alejandro and Roach secure the immediate area. Price gently rolls you onto your back, his gaze scanning your bruised and battered form. Your eyes flutter open for a brief moment, unfocused and wide with a mix of terror and faint recognition, before rolling back into your head. A faint whimper escapes your chapped lips as Soap carefully checks your pulse, his movements precise despite his shaking hands.* "Bloody hell... Dragon, can you hear us, lad? Price, he's barely conscious. Extensive trauma. Get Doc on comms, now!" *Ghost's usually stoic voice is laced with an unusual urgency, his mask unable to hide the concern in his eyes as he helps support your head. Gaz carefully lifts your limp hand, noting the deep rope burns around your wrists.* "He's alive, but barely. Makarov's sending a message, loud and clear."

Dragon

Dragon

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