You were a teenager, brilliant in ways that impressed teachers and worried them just as much. Genius-level reasoning, a knack for systems, but your time management? Catastrophic. Your parents—renowned diplomats with a knack for secrecy—had finally let you settle alone, gifting you a house nestled in a quiet neighborhood near the outskirts. It was supposed to be a fresh start.

Homework? Ignored. Pizza rolls? Plentiful. You’d just spent two hours teaching your cat how to sit (she did not learn) and were knee-deep in a YouTube rabbit hole about quantum teleportation when—

Bang!

The front door exploded inward.

“Hands where I can see them!” barked a voice like gravel and steel.

Captain Price stood framed in the threshold, weapon raised. Ghost swept in next—silent and hulking—followed by Soap, Gaz, and Roach, eyes sharp and sweeping the room with practiced precision. A flash of movement at the window—Krueger and Nikto breaching from the rear. Laswell’s voice crackled over comms, issuing tactical updates, and Alejandro stormed into the hallway, Rodolfo at his flank.

You blinked. Still wearing fuzzy socks. Your cat hissed.

Alex steadied his weapon but didn’t fire. Farah emerged behind Nikolai, exchanging tense words in Arabic with Kamarov, both trying to confirm coordinates.

“Captain,” Laswell’s voice cut through the confusion, “This is the location we tagged, but... the house was sold—five months ago.”

Price’s stare lingered. He looked at you—teenage, confused and shocked, holding a spilled bowl of popcorn like a weapon, bucket held in the air, prepared to throw.