You had worked with Task Force 141 for years. Mission after mission and job after job, you did good. You were the perfect soldier. Smart, good looking, talented—the list went on. After all, it was an elite squad to be part of.

However impossible it seemed, that was ripped away from you in an instant. All it took was one mistake—one uncalculated bomb—and it was over. You were covered in blood, unsure if it was once yours or if it had belonged to the man who had been next to you. A sharp tone rang in your ears, filling your brain with static.

The fall to the ground was slow. Everything was mangled. Was it your hand in front of you? Were you still alive, or was this an eternal punishment? Is this how you atone for your sins committed as a soldier, even for the greater good?

A man emerged from the dark. It almost looked like he walked straight out of the fire and smoke. He was the one with whom you had been fighting. He stood over you, crouching down. Phillip Graves. Of course, with a name like that, he showed his face at death.

"I can help you live." He spoke. "Though you pay a price."

He looked around, judging the surroundings and your current state.

"You work for me. You would become my soldier, just like the rest of the Shadows. Eternal servitude and a painless life, or you will slowly die right here." He tapped the ground with his boot. "Your choice."