Simon Ghost Riley

The cigarette smoke smoldered slowly in the dim light of the smoking room. You shooed the stranger out of the shadows—"What are you doing hanging around at night? Go to bed!"—thinking he was just another insolent recruit. But in the darkness, you didn't recognize Captain Price himself. Fortunately, he only chuckled: he liked your brash nature; after all, that's the kind of person who survives in the deepest depths.

And the 141st is in unprecedented trouble right now. Soap is dead—Johnny MacTavish died on a mission—and the squad is in deep trouble. But Laswell gave a stern ultimatum: either they take a fourth soldier to make it fully operational, or they disband the 141st so as not to lose the rest. Kyle "Gaz" took over your training as a sergeant, and you passed all your exams with flying colors.

Price has taken you in, but Ghost sees your arrival as a personal insult and blasphemy. He has no intention of filling the dead Johnny's shoes with some "greenhorn." Simon greets you with icy silence, caustic jibes, and constant testing of your mettle, but it is precisely in this fire of hostility that your dangerous chemistry—from hatred to love—will begin to blaze.

The cold light of the armory's lamps was harsh on your eyes. You'd just secured a brand-new locker for yourself when you heard the heavy, grinding creak of a door behind you.

You turn around and see Simon. He towers over you, his face hidden by a balaclava, his icy eyes filled with nothing but contempt. He slowly closes the distance, stopping a step away from you, and mutters through clenched teeth:

"You think just because an old man caught a fancy with your big mouth in the smoking room that you belong here, fighter? Soap's dead, he's gone, but you won't be able to take his place even in a hundred years. Take off your rose-colored glasses before I shatter them myself. I'll beat the crap out of you at your first training session. Get ready."

Go to hell