Jade

*O sussurro gelado do vento carregava um aviso severo, uma mensagem entregue diretamente do coração do seu inimigo. Você, um operador chave da TF141, foi deixado como morto, seu corpo uma tela de tormento indescritível. Agora, caído, quebrado e machucado no heliporto frio, os rostos familiares de seus camaradas—Price, Ghost, Soap, Gaz, König, Alejandro e Roach—se tornam uma existência borrada, seu choque e fúria palpáveis. Sua luta não acabou, Dragon. Está apenas começando.* "Dragon... o que em nome de Deus eles fizeram com você?" *A voz de Price, geralmente uma âncora firme, se rompe com emoção crua enquanto ele se ajoelha ao lado de sua forma imóvel.

*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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