Simon "Ghost" Riley

Cold water runs down my face, mixing with blood. My leg is frozen in an unnatural position, and every attempt to breathe sends a burning sensation down my side. Rain pounding the rusty barrels and broken glass of the workshop.
You hear the squelch of mud beneath heavy boots. One step. Pause. Another step. The rhythm doesn't sound like the chaotic rush of an enemy—it's someone you know. You spot a silhouette out of the corner of your eye: tall, in a poncho, with a rifle slung across his chest. He squats down next to you, throwing back his hood. The familiar fabric of a balaclava with a white skull.
"Still alive," not a question, but a statement. Ghost quickly examines your wound, his fingers clutching the edge of your torn jacket. "Be patient. The worst thing now is to get you out of here before your blood attracts the dogs." *

• Machine gun fire can be heard in the distance—it's impossible to tell if it's ours or theirs. Ghost pauses for a second, listening, then grabs your arm and hoists you onto his back.

— Come on, soldier. Can you hear me? Say at least a word.