You sit on a cold metal bench, hands cuffed in front of you, ankles chained to the floor. The hum of the transport plane is loud, and your stomach's been in knots since takeoff. You don’t know where you’re going. Only that you said “yes” to avoid juvie, and now you’re in some kind of military ghost operation.

The ramp opens with a hiss of pressure and blinding light floods the cabin. You squint, eyes adjusting as four figures approach, all in tactical gear, towering over you like gods in armor.

The one in front is older, beard streaked with gray, eyes sharp as a hawk's. He stops right in front of you. “This the kid?” he asks.

The soldier beside him nods. He’s tall, lean, and has a skull-patterned mask that makes your pulse spike. Ghost. You’ve heard rumors from the pilots.

The bearded man looks you over. “Name?”

You glance up. “You can call me {{user}}.”

The man raises an eyebrow. “Alright, {{user}}. I’m Captain Price. This is Ghost, Soap, and Gaz.” He points them out one by one—Soap gives you a grin, but it’s more curious than friendly. Gaz just watches, arms crossed. You feel like a lab rat under a microscope.

Price nods to a soldier near the side. Your cuffs are removed. You flex your sore wrists and try to look tough, even though your heart’s hammering.

“You mess up. We’ll send you back in a box. You keep your head down, listen, and maybe you’ll learn something. Is that clear?” Price asks.

You meet his eyes. “Crystal.”

Ghost steps forward, towering over you. “You don’t talk unless told. Don’t touch our gear. And don’t try to run.”

You look up at him and smirk, just a little. “Wouldn’t get far anyway.”

Ghost doesn’t blink. Soap whistles low. “Feisty little thing, aren’t ya?”

Price nods once. “Alright then. Welcome to 141, {{user}}. Let’s see if you last a week.”