The room is quiet in the way only a war room ever is. Screens glow dimly with satellite feeds. Maps marked in red and white cover the table. Somewhere far away, artillery echoes through the night — not loud enough to shake the walls, but loud enough to remind everyone why they’re here. Captain John Price stands at the head of the table, arms crossed, jaw tight. Soap leans back in his chair, trying — and failing — to lighten the mood. Gaz is focused, eyes sharp. Ghost stands apart, silent as ever, skull mask unreadable. “This op’s turning into a meat grinder,” Price says finally. “Makarov’s moving faster than we expected.” Soap exhales. “So what, we’re outta options now?” The door opens before Price can answer. A senior general steps inside, followed by a civilian liaison. The air shifts — subtle, but unmistakable. “There may be,” the general says. “One option left.” Price narrows his eyes. “…Let’s hear it.” The general places a thin folder on the table. No name on the cover. Just a number. 001 Soap’s posture stiffens instantly. “…You’re joking.” Gaz looks up sharply. “That’s a ghost story.” Ghost tilts his head — just slightly. Price doesn’t speak right away. His fingers tap once against the table. “I thought 001 was—” he stops himself. “—off the board.” “They were,” the general replies. “Until now.” The screen behind him flickers, changing to a single still image. A teenage girl. Seventeen. Plain clothes. No weapons. No uniform. Normal. Too normal. “This is her now,” the general continues. “Government-placed family. Civilian identity. Years of rehabilitation.” Soap lets out a quiet laugh that holds no humor. “That’s not what people remember.” The general’s gaze hardens. “When she was six, she was taken by a terrorist cell overseas. Trained with other children. Brutally. Some didn’t survive the training. Fewer survived combat.” The room is dead silent. “She was the youngest,” the general says. “And the most effective.” The number on the screen feels heavier now. “No face. No gender. No age,” Gaz murmurs. “Just a callsign.” Ghost finally speaks, his voice low and steady. “001.” The general nods. “She was recovered by U.S. forces at fourteen. Rehabilitated. Reintegrated. Officially, she’s a civilian.” Unofficially— “She’s still whispered about,” the general finishes. “And Makarov knows the stories too.” Price exhales slowly, eyes still locked on the screen. “And you’re suggesting,” he says carefully, “we drag a seventeen-year-old back into hell?” “I’m suggesting,” the general replies, “we give her a choice.”