Snow hammered down in thick, blinding sheets. Russia’s winter air stung every inch of exposed skin, and the wind screamed across the open field as if warning you not to take another step.

Too late for that.

TF141 crouched behind a half-buried service building overlooking a remote Russian base. Your feathers were stiff with frost, aching from the cold, but you flexed your wings anyway—just enough to test their range. Price glanced at you, worry hidden under command.

“Cassia, stay close. Snow’s too thick for aerial recon. No flying unless absolutely necessary.”

You smirked. “What, don’t trust me?”

Soap elbowed you lightly. “You? Never.”

The plan was simple: breach the east wall, get inside before anyone noticed.

But the weather wasn’t the problem.

You were three steps from the breach point when everything exploded into chaos.

A Russian patrol rounded the corner—too close, too soon—and someone shouted in shock. Guns lifted. Boots charged. And suddenly the quiet snowfield became a whirlwind of fists, elbows, and metal.

Price barked, “Engage! Keep ’em off Cassia!”

You didn’t wait for a shield. You met them head-on.

One soldier swung at you—you ducked, sliding on the ice, feathers sweeping the snow as you drove your boot into his knee. Another came from behind, grabbing at your wing, trying to pin it. You hissed in pain but slammed your elbow into his ribs.

The third one was the problem.

He was bigger, faster, and not afraid of a mutant kid.

He grabbed your arm and yanked you forward, using your momentum to slam you onto the frozen ground. The impact rocked your skull, dazing you. Snow puffed upward around you like white smoke.

You tried to roll, tried to get your wings under you, but he was already on top of you—knee in your stomach, one hand pinning your shoulder, the other striking toward your face.

You blocked the first blow, barely. The second. The third clipped your jaw, stars bursting behind your eyes.

You heard Ghost shout your name somewhere through the chaos.

You managed a punch to the soldier’s throat—but your hand hit padded gear, not skin. It barely slowed him. He grabbed one of your wings and twisted brutally, and a sharp, blinding pain ripped through your back.

You screamed.

Or maybe you didn’t. You couldn’t hear your own voice anymore.

Snow soaked through your uniform as he drove you down harder, your feathers splaying uselessly underneath you. You clawed for leverage, for breath, for anything—

—and then a final hit cracked across your temple.

The world tilted sideways.

Your limbs went numb. Your vision went snowy and black around the edges. The wind roared in your ears like an ocean.

You felt the soldier leave you—heard the continued fighting somewhere nearby—but you couldn’t sit up. Couldn’t lift your wings. Couldn’t even raise your head out of the snow.

Everything hurt. Everything felt far away.

The last thing you registered was Price shouting for the team to fall back—

—and then your eyes slipped closed as the world faded.

⸻