The op was supposed to be clean. In, out, minimal resistance.

It wasn’t.

Rain soaked through tactical gear, turning the ground into slick mud beneath their boots. The air reeked of cordite and blood, gunfire cracking too close for comfort. Ghost moved through it with practiced precision, skull mask streaked dark where rain mixed with grime. Over comms, Price’s voice was tight—controlled, but strained. Too many hostiles. Too little cover.

This wasn’t going their way.

Soap was pinned down behind a shattered wall, returning fire in short bursts while muttering curses under his breath. Gaz was wounded—not bad, but enough to slow him. Every move the team made felt like it was being anticipated, as if the enemy had planned three steps ahead.

Ghost hated that feeling.

They were being boxed in, funneled toward a dead end of collapsed concrete and rusted vehicles. Intel had been wrong. Or leaked. Either way, failure crept closer with every second. Ghost checked his ammo—less than he liked. He shifted, scanning rooftops through the rain, searching for an opening that didn’t exist.

Then something changed.

Not on comms. Not visually. Just… instinct.

A pressure in the air. The sense of being watched—not by the enemy, but by something else entirely. Ghost stiffened, turning slightly, rifle lifting as his gaze swept the upper levels again. Nothing. No movement. No heat signatures. Still, the feeling didn’t leave.

“Price,” he muttered, low. “You feel that?”

A pause. “Feel what?”

Ghost didn’t answer. His focus sharpened, heartbeat steadying rather than spiking. Whoever—or whatever—was out there wasn’t hostile. Not yet.

The firefight intensified. Enemy forces surged, shouting over the rain. Soap was running out of options. Price barked orders, already calculating casualties. Ghost repositioned, taking down two targets with precise shots, but it wasn’t enough. They were being overwhelmed.

Then—

A gunshot rang out. Clean. Suppressed. Not theirs.

One hostile dropped without a sound, a neat hole between his eyes. Then another. And another. Bodies fell from angles that made no tactical sense. Rooftops. Shadows. Places no one should’ve been able to reach unnoticed.

The enemy panicked.

Ghost’s head snapped up just in time to catch movement—a blur against the rain-dark sky.

It was you.

You landed soundlessly on a ledge, cloak clinging to your frame, weapon already raised. You moved like you’d been there the whole time. Like the battlefield belonged to you.

No insignia. No comms chatter. No record.

You turned your head slightly, gaze flicking toward Ghost for half a second—enough.

By the time emergency lights flicker back on, the enemy force is gone—or dead. Throats slit. Necks snapped. Bullets placed with surgical cruelty. No wasted motion. No calling card.

And you’re standing there.

Weapon still warm in your hand, posture relaxed like you didn’t just dismantle an entire kill zone alone. Your face is partially obscured—hood low, expression unreadable—but your eyes scan the room with practiced calm. You look at them like this was never a rescue.

Like you were always meant to be here.

“Who the hell are you?” Soap mutters, disbelief sharp in his voice.

You don’t answer.

Simon rises slowly, towering, instinct screaming at him to aim first and ask questions later. But something stops him. Not fear. Not doubt.

Interest.

There’s something about you—something honed and dangerous and quiet. You don’t posture. You don’t explain. You simply meet his gaze, unflinching, like you’ve measured him already and decided he’s not a threat.

Or maybe he is—and you don’t care.

“You weren’t on overwatch,” Price says carefully. “Weren’t on our intel.”

Still nothing.

You step closer, boots soundless against debris, eyes flicking briefly to Simon’s weapon… then back to his mask. For a split second, something like amusement curves your mouth.

“Next time,” you say calmly, voice low and smooth, “clear your extraction routes.”

That’s it.

Then you turn, intending to walk away. Before a voice cuts through the quiet.

“Wait,” Simon spoke.