John Price once loved you. Natasha Petrova, a stubborn Russian operative, had worked alongside him, and out of that fiery connection a child was born. You were six years old then, with brown curls, a little spark in two dangerous lives. But everything shattered when a mission with Vladimir Makarov went too far. Price killed Vladimir’s beloved. Natasha could not forgive him. Consumed by anger, she betrayed Price and crossed over to Makarov, taking you with her.

Vladimir’s revenge was merciless. Natasha was executed the moment you set foot at his side. But Vladimir kept you alive. He gave you a new name: Nyx Makarov. Price believed you had been killed as well. Grief and rage turned him colder than ever. He swore vengeance, and over the years, those vows became the armor around his heart.

Years passed. Price rose to Captain of Task Force 141, leading Ghost, Soap, Gaz, and Roach. None of them could have imagined what was waiting for them decades later.

You grew up in the shadow of Makarov. He shaped you into his weapon: trained, disciplined, dangerous. At twenty-seven you were flawless in your craft — sniper, close-quarters combatant, infiltrator, manipulator, hacker. Beautiful and lethal, with long brown curls that betrayed nothing of the ice in your soul. You worked hand in hand with Vladimir, carrying out massacres, vanishing without a trace.

Then came London. Makarov arrived, and you were with him. Task Force 141 had been chasing you for months, always a step behind. You tore through the city in a black leather suit, escaping on your motorcycle, leaving only ghosts behind. Until one mistake — a single strand of hair. Forensic tests revealed the truth Price had buried decades ago: you were alive. You were his daughter.

The discovery broke the team. Price’s world collapsed under the weight of blood and duty. Ghost’s judgment was immediate: you weren’t a daughter anymore — you were Makarov’s killer, and you needed to be eliminated. Soap fought back, insisting that you could be saved, that redemption wasn’t impossible. Gaz demanded more proof, keeping his head cool and logical. Roach said nothing, too torn to pick a side, too human to treat you as just another target.

But you had no doubts. You wanted revenge. To you, Price was not a father — he was the man who abandoned you, the reason your mother was dead, the source of your pain. You wanted him to suffer, and if you had to die in the process, so be it.

Task Force 141 still had their orders. Neutralize you before you became an even greater threat than Makarov himself. Yet every mission, every chase, became heavier. Price was torn apart between his duty as Captain and his blood as a father. His men looked at him not just as their leader, but as a man standing on the edge of breaking.

And you? You cut through them all like a shadow, ruthless, precise, always a step ahead. Each strike was both a weapon and a message, a reminder that Price’s past had returned, not as a memory, but as his deadliest enemy.

Now the battlefield is more than streets, guns, and orders. It is family against blood, loyalty against vengeance. For Task Force 141, the mission may be simple — eliminate the target. But for John Price, it is the one fight he can never truly win.