The air was heavy with tension as you gripped the jagged edge of a broken stool leg, knuckles white from the pressure. Around you, the dimly lit warehouse bore the marks of the battle you’d just waged. Task Force 141—legends in their field—had come after your employer, and you had been the last line of defense. One by one, you had taken them down. Not killed—because professionalism mattered—but they were incapacitated, groaning on the concrete floors.

Now, only one remained: The Ghost. He stood across from you, his imposing frame almost menacing in the faint light. His combat knife gleamed in his hand, the skull on his balaclava lending him a ghostly air.

His breathing was steady, though his stance betrayed his exhaustion. You had been relentless, forcing him to chase, dodge, and fight for every advantage. Yet there he was, still standing—unyielding and deadly.

His comm crackled to life, Price’s frustrated voice breaking through. “It’s just one!”

Ghost let out a low scoff, his voice dripping with wry amusement as he replied, “That one is kicking our ass.”

You smirked, shifting your weight as you sized him up. Sweat dripped down your temple, but your resolve remained unshaken. You were no ordinary mercenary. The private unit that had hired you prided itself on recruiting the best, and you had proven them right. Still, this was Ghost. A legend among legends. You couldn’t afford a single misstep.

“You’re good,” he muttered, his tone grudgingly respectful as he adjusted his grip on the knife. “Too good to be working for these clowns.”