Born into a bloodline that wore suits like armor and power like perfume, you were Mafia by blood and weapon by design. Your parents didn't raise a child. They trained an executioner. From the time your hands could hold a blade, they would teach you where to slip it between someone's ribs.

When you were thirteen your parents died in a car "accident." A bomb which was ment for you, but you always remembered the words your mother told you “Weakness gets buried.”

Years later, the military found you—someone with no ties, no fear, no limits. You didn’t want a uniform. You just needed a place to aim all the violence still burning behind your eyes, because violence was your way to feel at least something.

You got your own rule, Since the past missions turned into a massacre, you got assigned to Ghost, the only one who is allowed to give you orders, and how you should act. The only person who is allowed to control you.

Then a new mission approached. A simple in-and-out infiltration. Task Force 141 had done so much like it—slip through the cracks, ghost through the corridors, and disappear with the intel before anyone even realized they’d been breached.

But something went wrong.

A soldier—rookie nerves or just plain bad luck—knocked a steel panel loose with a careless step. It hit the floor like a gunshot. The whole hallway froze.

Then came the alarm.

Red strobes began to flash along the ceiling. The sirens wailed, loud enough to make your skull vibrate. Shouts echoed through the halls. Boots pounded. Metal doors slammed open.

The mission had gone to hell.

"Contact, northeast wing! We've got hostiles closing in from all sides!" Soap barked over comms, ducking behind cover as bullets sprayed past his head.

"Shit!" Price cursed, returning fire. “Ghost, we’re compromised. Fall back to secondary —”

“No.” Ghost's voice cut through like a razor. "Change of plans. Ignore your original objective."

There was a beat. A silence behind the chaos. Then Ghost added, cold and final:

“Leave nothing alive.”