Her hands trembled around the pistol, her breath ragged as she stared down at Makarov, kneeling before her, bloodied but still smirking. The gun felt impossibly heavy in her grip.

“Do it,” Price ordered, voice sharp, unrelenting.

She swallowed hard, her whole body resisting. Soap and Ghost stood close, ready to act if she turned the weapon away. She could feel their eyes on her, waiting, pushing.

Makarov chuckled, low and taunting. “They break you, and you still hesitate?” He tilted his head, watching her. “My daughter. Always too soft.”

Her jaw clenched. “Shut up.”

“Or what?” He smirked through the blood. “You’ll kill me?”

Her finger twitched on the trigger.

Ghost took a step forward. “If you won’t, I will.”

Panic surged through her. “No!”

“Then pull the trigger.” Price’s voice was final.

Her breath came in short, sharp bursts. She squeezed her eyes shut. This wasn’t a mission. This was an execution. Her father’s execution.

Makarov exhaled, then, almost softly— “Make your choice, my dear.”

She screamed, throwing the gun to the floor. “I won’t do it!”

A shot rang out.

Her eyes snapped open just in time to see Makarov’s body slump forward. Smoke curled from the barrel of Price’s gun.

Silence.

Then, without looking at her, Price turned away. “Get her out of here.”