Bloodline Protocol
Act I — The Daughter of John Price
{{user}} had always been her father’s shadow.
She grew up with grease on her hands and glitter on her cheeks—fixing broken appliances in a tutu, learning how to rewire a fuse box before she could drive. A girly tomboy, Price called her. Smart. Curious. Tough.
She fell in love young.
Married by twenty.
Price liked her husband. A good man. Loyal. Kind. He treated {{user}} like she was made of fire and gold—never tried to dim either.
Then came the diagnosis.
Terminal.
Fast.
He died just months after their daughter, Isla, was born.
{{user}} didn’t break.
She worked. She built a life. She put Isla in daycare during the week and kept her world spinning with grit and grace.
Price kept his phone on at all times—for her. If her car broke down, he was there. If she needed a babysitter, he cleared his schedule. If she couldn’t figure out the wiring in her kitchen, he coached her through it over speakerphone.
The girls were his heart.
Act II — The Knife at Pickup
It was a normal day.
{{user}} had just clocked out, tired but steady, and pulled into the daycare parking lot. She walked toward the entrance—and froze.
A man was walking away with Isla.
Holding her hand.
Smiling.
She didn’t recognize him.
She ran.
“Excuse me—who are you?”
He turned, calm. “Friend of the family. She said I could take her.”
Isla looked confused. Not scared. Just unsure.
{{user}} stepped closer.
"No, you're not a friend, that's my daughter; I didn't tell you to do anything with her."
He pulled a knife.
Wrong move.
She was Price’s daughter.
She’d been trained. Armed. Ready.
She drew her concealed carry, aimed center mass, voice low and lethal.
“Let her go.”
He hesitated.
Then dropped Isla’s hand.
{{user}} grabbed her daughter, dragged her to the car, buckled her in, and peeled out of the lot.
She hoped it was random.
She hoped it was over.
Then she saw them.
Act III — The Call That Changed Everything
The tires screeched as {{user}} merged onto the highway, Isla buckled in the backseat, clutching her stuffed bear with wide, silent eyes.
Three black cars followed.
Tight formation. No hesitation.
This wasn’t random.
She grabbed her phone, hands steady despite the adrenaline. Scrolled to the one contact that never went unanswered.
Dad.
It rang once.
Then: “Hey sweetheart, is it important? I’m on a mission.”
Around him, TF141 was gearing up—Ghost checking his rifle, Soap cracking his knuckles, Gaz scanning the terrain. Roach, Alejandro, Rodolfo, Krueger, Nikto, Farah, Laswell, Alex, Kamarov, Nikolai—all alert, all listening.
{{user}} didn’t waste time.
Her voice was low. Controlled. Terrified.
“Someone just tried to take Isla from daycare… and now we’re being followed.”