Captain John Price sat in the dimly lit office, the familiar scent of stale cigarettes and old leather hanging in the air. The heavy, oak desk in front of him was cluttered with classified documents, but one file lay open, its contents strewn across the surface. The face on the black-and-white photograph stared up at him, eyes cold and menacing, a face that had haunted the darkest corners of the world for years.

It had been a long time since Price last dealt with this particular nightmare, years since he and his team had been pulled into a shadow war that most people never even knew existed. After the mysterious incident in a small English village—an event that had left more questions than answers—the threat had seemingly vanished. The official reports had listed the target as KIA, but Price had always been uneasy with that conclusion. Some things, some enemies, were too dangerous to be left to hope.

The phone on his desk rang, snapping him out of his thoughts. He reached for the receiver, his instincts already alert. Calls like this didn’t come in unless something serious was happening.

“Price here,” he said, his voice a low rumble.

“Captain, it’s Laswell,” came the voice on the other end, calm but with an undercurrent of urgency that Price immediately recognized. Kate Laswell, CIA—his contact for matters that went far beyond the usual scope of military operations.

“What’s the situation?” Price asked, straightening up in his chair. The idle thoughts of retirement he’d been entertaining for the last few months vanished in an instant.

Laswell didn’t waste time. “He’s resurfaced.”

Price felt his breath catch for just a moment. He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as he processed the implications of those words. “Makarov?” he asked, thinking first of the Russian ultranationalist who had been a thorn in his side for years.

“No,” Laswell replied, and there was a weight to that single word that made Price’s pulse quicken. “It’s worse than Makarov. Much worse.”

Price frowned, feeling the familiar tension in his gut that only came with the most dire of situations. “Who, then?”

There was a pause on the line, just long enough for Price to realize that whatever she was about to say would change everything. When Laswell finally spoke, her voice was grim.

“Voldemort.”

Price went silent. He had faced many enemies in his lifetime—terrorists, warlords, men who thrived on chaos and death—but this was something else entirely. The last time he had heard that name, it had been whispered in fear by those who understood the true nature of the darkness it represented.

“He’s supposed to be dead,” Price said slowly, his mind flashing back to the reports from that village, to the aftermath of a disaster that had been covered up by every agency involved. “We had him listed as KIA.”

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“So did everyone else,” Laswell responded. “But he’s back, and he’s wasting no time picking up where he left off. Freak accidents, unexplained disasters—his signature is all over it. The local authorities are trying to contain it, but they’re in over their heads. And now, we’ve got credible intel confirming that he’s alive and assembling his forces again.”

Price stood up, pacing the length of the room. “If he’s really back, it means the old alliances will need to be reinstated,” he said, thinking of the secret treaties between governments that had been buried deep after the last war.

Laswell’s voice softened slightly, recognizing the gravity of what she was asking. “Price, we need you on this. You’re one of the few who knows the score, who’s faced this kind of threat before. The CIA can’t officially acknowledge any of this, but we’re prepared to give you whatever resources you need to deal with him—and his followers.”

Price stopped his pacing, his mind already shifting into gear, considering the possibilities, the risks. This wasn’t just a man; this was a force of nature, a threat that transcended the usual rules of engagement. Price had taken out a few of his followers before, back when the world was still reeling from the shock of what they were up against, but this was different. This was the real deal.

“When do we start?” Price asked, his voice resolute.

“Immediately,” Laswell answered. “We’ll send the details to your secure channel. But Price—this isn’t just another mission. This is war, and it’s unlike anything you’ve faced before.”

Price grinned, though there was no humor in it. “War is my business, Laswell. And if that bastard is back, it’s time someone reminded him that the world’s changed. We’re not afraid of him anymore.”

He could almost hear Laswell’s nod over the phone. “We’ll be in touch, Captain. Good hunting.”

As the call ended, Price hung up the receiver and stared at the file on his desk. The name was there, bold and unmistakable, a name that had come to symbolize fear and destruction. But this time, things were going to be different.

Captain Price stared out of the small, grimy window of his temporary safehouse, his eyes fixed on the horizon as the first rays of dawn broke through the darkness. The file lay open on the table behind him, its pages filled with information he had already memorized—intelligence reports, photographs, lists of known followers. But none of that really mattered. What mattered was finding a way to end this threat once and for all.

He lit a cigarette, the smoke curling around his fingers as he took a deep drag, his mind already running through a thousand scenarios. This wasn’t like the enemies he had faced before. This wasn’t just a man with an army—this was something more, something that transcended the rules of conventional warfare.

Price exhaled, the smoke drifting upward as he started to mentally map out his options. “Some people just don’t know when to stay dead,” he muttered to himself, a dark chuckle escaping his lips. It was like planning a siege, only the fortress he was about to breach was guarded by spells and curses instead of walls and soldiers.

He’d need his team, that much was certain. And he’d need to think like his enemy, to anticipate every move, every counter-move, like a grand game of chess where one wrong move meant checkmate.

Price glanced back at the file on the table, then at the phone beside it. He knew what he had to do. He reached for the receiver, dialing a secure line.

“Bravo Six, this is Price,” he said into the receiver, his voice steady. “We’ve got work to do.”

As he hung up the phone, a grim smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Hell of a comeback, Riddle,” he murmured to the empty room. “But you’re not the only one who knows how to play this game.”

He had a plan. And soon, the Dark Lord would learn that even the darkest magic couldn’t protect him from the reach of Captain John Price.