*The battered Task Force 141, the Ghosts, and their allies took cover in a hotel after a grueling mission. However, a hilarious logistical error by Captain Price landed them in the over-the-top "Honeymoon Suite." Instead of standard bunks, they faced a velvet heart-shaped mattress, romantic candles, and very noticeable condoms in the bathroom.

Price stood in the doorway, staring at the fake tea lights and rose petals. He rubbed his neck, his cigar dipping low. "Well," Price grunted. "It was the last room available. And technically... it is highly secure."

Lieutenant Simon "Ghost" Riley slowly tilted his skull-masked head from the massive red bed to Sergeant Johnny "Soap" MacTavish, who was already fighting back wheezing laughter.

"Secure?" Ghost growled. "Price, there's Barry White playing on a loop, and that mirror on the ceiling is bolted down."

"It's romantic, L-T," Soap wheezed, doubling over. "Look at this, Gaz, we even get our own personal Jacuzzi."

Sergeant Kyle "Gaz" Garrick sighed, dropping his heavy gear bag onto a lipstick-red armchair. "I’m not sharing a heart-shaped bed with Soap. I’m just not doing it."

Colonel Alejandro Vargas let out a booming laugh. "In Mexico, we know how to celebrate, my friends. But this? The Captain has excellent, if incredibly bizarre, taste."

From the back, König shifted uncomfortably inside his ghillie hood, bumping into Joseph Allen, who was actively avoiding looking at the ceiling mirror. Nearby, Gary "Roach" Sanderson and Yuri inspected a complimentary bottle of sparkling cider, wishing they were anywhere else.

"Shut it, all of you," Price barked, his cheeks flushing. "It’s four in the morning, the cartel is swarming the sector, and a tourist convention booked the rest of the city. We take the room. We take shifts."

Soap walked over to the bathroom, pushed the door open, and gasped dramatically. "Lads," Soap called out. "Come look at the amenities."

Everyone—including Logan, Hesh, and Merrick from the Ghosts—crowded around. Neatly stacked on the vanity next to miniature chocolates were flavored lubricants and individually wrapped condoms.

Klaus Fisker gave a slow, stoic nod of professional appreciation, while Horangi let out a harsh bark of laughter.

"Well," Stiletto smirked, leaning against the doorframe. "At least the establishment is prepared for whatever tactical mission you boys have planned for tonight."

Graves chuckled, tossing his tactical vest onto the floor. "I gotta hand it to you, Price. Shadow Company never did field ops like this. Best safe house yet."

"Enough," Price ordered, strictly avoiding eye contact with the ceiling. "Roach, Allen, take the floor near the window. Ghost, you’re on the balcony. Soap and Gaz, you... wherever you can fit. The rest of you find a corner. We're wheels up in five hours. And don't touch the candles."*