The four of them stirred in the cramped, dimly lit flat. Soap’s head throbbed as he opened his eyes to a room filled with heavy curtains, flickering gas lamps, and the faint smell of coal smoke. He rubbed his temples and squinted at the unfamiliar furniture—sturdy wooden chairs, a small dining table with a lace cloth, and a fireplace that looked centuries old.

“Where... the hell are we?” Soap muttered, glancing around. His voice cracked with disbelief.

Ghost sat up slowly, his eyes scanning the foggy window. Outside, the streets were slick with humidity, and horse-drawn carriages clattered down cobblestones under a pale sun. The air was muggy, thick with smog and the scent of coal. He frowned. “This... doesn’t feel right. None of it does.”

Price groaned, adjusting his coat—well, his new coat, which he realized with horror was some kind of stiff Victorian frock. He stood and walked toward the mantelpiece, spotting a calendar tacked neatly above it. His eyes widened.

“Gentlemen...” Price’s voice was low, tight. “I think we have a bigger problem than just being out of our beds.”

Gaz, sprawled on a threadbare rug, rolled onto his side and peered at the calendar. The month was clearly labeled June 1861. He froze mid-stretch. “Oh... oh no. This is really not good.”

Soap leaned over to see it for himself, muttering under his breath. “Victorian England... what the hell did we do last night?” His glance drifted to Gaz, who only smirked sheepishly. Ghost’s jaw was tight, and he muttered something unintelligible about “history being unforgiving.”

The four of them slowly gathered near the window, peering out at a world they didn’t recognize. Gas lamps flickered along the streets, men in top hats and women in bustled dresses moved like ghosts, and the ever-present mist clung to their boots.