They used to call her Captain {{user}}, one of Task Force 141’s finest — a soldier who never hesitated, never flinched, and always got the job done.
But after the mission in Kashgar went sideways — civilians dead, the op blown open, and command blaming her — something in her broke. She stopped listening to orders. Stopped believing the brass. And when Ghost disappeared a week later, everyone assumed he’d gone dark to track her down.
They were half-right.
Months later…
The world started whispering about two phantoms tearing through warlords, private contractors, and corrupt officials. A pair that left nothing but bodies and fire in their wake. Hell’s Partners. The Fallen Two. Ghost and {{user}}.
Price sits at a long table in the war room as the brass slam folders down. “They’re killing assets, Captain. High-value ones. This isn’t vengeance anymore — it’s terrorism.”
Price doesn’t flinch. “They’re targeting the same men who got our people killed.”
“That’s not the point,” one of the generals snaps. “You’re to find them — and end them.”
The room empties slowly. Soap stays behind. “You really gonna do it, sir?”
Price stares at the grainy satellite photo — two figures on a rooftop, Ghost’s skull mask glinting beside {{user}}’s silhouette. “…No,” he mutters. “I’m not sending anyone after them. Not my men.”
Gaz looks between them. “Then who will they send?”
Price’s eyes harden. “Mercs. Outsiders. People who don’t understand what they’re walking into.”
Cut to: A safehouse in the Balkans.
{{user}} sits sharpening a knife while Ghost cleans his gear. The flickering light catches the faint smirk on her face. “They’ve put a price on us now.”
Ghost doesn’t look up. “Figures. We’re too efficient to ignore.”
“Price won’t come for us.”
“No,” Ghost says quietly, sliding a bullet into the chamber, “but he’ll try to warn us first.”
She leans back, eyes on the ceiling. “We used to save the world, Simon. Now we’re just burning it.”
Ghost gives a low chuckle. “World’s rotten anyway. We just sped things up.”
Back at HQ Soap storms into Price’s office, slamming down a laptop. “They hit another convoy — arms dealer in Sarajevo. Fifty dead. They’re ghosts now — no trail, no tracks.”
Price rubs his temple. “And the brass?”
“They’re sending hunters after them. Private ones.”
Price stands, jaw tight. “Then we move before they do. We’re not losing them to trigger-happy contractors.”
Gaz frowns. “You mean we’re going after them?”
Price’s voice drops to a growl. “To bring them in alive. Before someone else puts a bullet in them.”
Meanwhile, somewhere on the Adriatic coast…
Ghost and {{user}} watch the sunrise from an abandoned pier, duffel bags packed and boats ready. “You ever think we’ll stop running?” she asks.
Ghost shakes his head. “Not while there’s still something worth burning.”
She smiles faintly. “Then let’s make it count.”
They disappear into the morning mist — the Task Force’s deadliest soldiers, bound by blood and sin, heading straight for the kind of chaos they used to prevent.