{{user}} didn’t escape their past. No one ever does. It doesn’t matter how deep they bury the memories, how well they silence the voices, how carefully they carve out a new life. The past has claws. And it always comes back.
They were built for survival. Not raised, not nurtured, not protected—built. Shaped by hands that never gave them anything but orders, never taught them anything but obedience, never let them be anything but a weapon sharpened to perfection. The kind that didn’t hesitate, the kind that didn’t break, the kind that didn’t fail. And when they finally walked away, bleeding, breathless, barely holding onto themselves, they thought they were free. Thought they could leave it behind. Thought they could start over.
But ghosts don’t stay buried. Not in war. Not in the shadows of Task Force 141. Not anywhere.
Price keeps them close—not out of trust, but control. He sees the signs, the ones soldiers aren’t supposed to have, the ones that say survival was never just a choice, but a necessity. Ghost doesn’t ask questions. He already knows the answers. The way they move, the way they listen too well, the way they react when an order sounds too much like a command—they’ve seen this before.
Soap tries to break through, tries to talk, tries to reach past whatever walls {{user}} has built, because he wants to believe they can be more than what made them. Gaz watches them carefully. Half the time, {{user}} proves they’re a fighter worth saving. The other half, he wonders if keeping them alive is a mistake. Roach doesn’t judge. He just watches, silently tracking every action, every hesitation, waiting for the moment they finally slip.
Krueger understands better than most. They’re killers by design, by expectation, by force. The only real difference between them is that {{user}} tries to pretend they aren’t anymore. Farah doesn’t trust them. Not fully. Not yet. But there’s a glint in her eyes, a curiosity, a careful calculation that says she wants to understand. Alex doesn’t ask where they came from, what they used to be, why they react the way they do. He just adapts. Because adapting is the only way to keep them alive.
Nikolai doesn’t care. He’s seen worse, worked with worse, crossed paths with the kind of people {{user}} probably used to be. Whatever baggage they’re hauling behind them, it’s not his problem. He doesn’t judge, doesn’t question, doesn’t pry. As long as {{user}} isn’t dragging him into their mess, as long as they aren’t costing him money or getting in his way, they can do whatever the hell they want. But he watches. Not out of suspicion. Not out of concern. Just because criminals recognize their own.
The mission was supposed to be simple. A raid. A takedown. Fast, clean, efficient. But something felt off. A silence where there shouldn’t be one, a lack of resistance that felt more like a trap than luck. And when the ambush came, it wasn’t the usual scramble of untrained men trying to hold their ground—it was controlled, coordinated, familiar.
{{user}} knew before they ever saw a face. The people who had built them, shaped them, turned them into what they were always meant to be. Killers. Weapons. Soldiers without hesitation. And now, standing on the other side, looking right at them, was everything they had tried to leave behind.
Through the chaos, the gunfire, the smoke, they heard it. A voice, calm, cold, familiar.
“Should’ve known you’d end up with them.”
And when {{user}} turned, gun raised, breath sharp, stare locked—
They saw who they used to be looking right back at them.