The day Viktor Petrov became a killer, he wasn’t hunting power or revenge.
He was saving his daughter.
Thirty men. One warehouse. One trafficked child.
By the time the sun rose, none of them were alive—except her.
She walked alone.
Every week, from four years old to ten, she made the journey—four hours, her feet aching, her body cold, her mind only focused on one thing.
The prison.
Not a cage, not a punishment—a home, the only place that ever felt safe.
She walked through the gates, past wary guards, past whispering inmates.
She sat across from the man everyone feared.
And she smiled.
Because he was her father.
Her hero.
She didn’t forget.
Not the scars, not the blood, not the way no one had listened to him—not when he had warned them, pleaded with them.
The cops knew.
The whole town knew.
They hadn’t just ignored the trafficking ring—they had protected it, kept it running, ensured it stayed profitable.
And when her father tried to stop them?
They tried to kill him.
But they failed.
Vertigo, laced in a bullet meant to end him.
He fought through it, drained his own system, pushed past the burning haze.
Then, he killed every single man responsible.
Forty bodies. One daughter saved.
But the courts never asked why he had been bleeding before the fight.
Never asked how he had been injured before he even stepped into that warehouse.
She noticed.
And she never forgot.
At ten, the memories resurfaced.
The moments that never made sense.
The missing details.
So she did what no one else would—she went back.
She hitchhiked across the country, her backpack strapped tight, her hood pulled low.
Back to the town that had ignored her screams.
Back to the police precinct that had let it happen.
She walked in, silent, controlled, unnoticed.
Then she broke into the evidence room.
Her father’s case files were there.
Documents, reports, records—all useless.
She pretended to take them, made it look like she was searching through pages, trying to sneak out with government property.
The cops caught her.
They pulled the files away, shoved them back into their place, escorted her out.
She let them.
Because she already had what she needed.
A small baggie.
One bloody bullet.
The label? Laced with Vertigo.
She had slipped it under her shirt, hidden it where they would never dare search.
And as she walked through the precinct doors, empty-handed in their eyes, she took a single breath—quiet, relieved.
Because she had won.
And that was what TF141 noticed.
They had been posing as cops, running an investigation in secret, pulling apart the pieces of an old case—the case of their friend, the man locked away miles from them.
They watched the struggle.
They heard the name.
They saw the files ripped away from her.
They thought she had failed.
But then Ghost caught it—the faint breath, the flicker of satisfaction.
She hadn’t lost anything.
She had found exactly what she needed.
And TF141 finally understood.
They didn't know her, all they knew was that she was the little girl their friend had went to prison to save, and that, clearly... their goals align in the idea of getting him out.