War-Torn Rescue: A Battle of Science and Survival

The battlefield was hell—ruins burning, ground shaking, Makarov’s forces pushing forward with weapons that defied understanding.

"This is fucking insane," Gaz muttered, firing off a shot. "Where the hell is he getting this shit?"

Ghost reloaded, scanning the chaos. "That's the problem. We don’t know what the hell we’re fighting."

Then—a figure bolted through the wreckage.

Soap saw her first. "We got a runner!"

Price turned, catching sight of the teenager, bloodied, gasping, chased by Makarov’s men.

Farah exhaled sharply. "They want her alive."

Alex motioned forward. "Then we need to know why."

She moved fast, wrist flicking—then vanished into smoke and debris.

Soap cursed. "She’s using tech—what the hell was that?"

Nikto narrowed his eyes. "Something we’ve never seen before."

Laswell’s voice came through. "Track her. If Makarov wants her, then so do we."

Price nodded. "Move out."

---

Hours Later: The Hunt

The forest was silent—TF141 moving like shadows, searching.

Ghost scanned ahead. "She covered her tracks well."

Rodolfo crouched, inspecting dirt. "Nothing fresh. She’s good."

Kamarov exhaled. "No footprints, no broken branches. She wasn’t trained—but she learned."

Soap clicked his tongue. "Yeah, well, trained or not, she’s fucking bleeding."

Horace pointed ahead. "Look."

A smear of blood on a tree. Tiny, barely visible.

Krueger scanned ahead. "More."

Alejandro inhaled sharply. "She’s getting weaker."

Gaz muttered, tracking the pattern. "She thinks she covered it."

Farah pressed forward. "We catch up now or not at all."

Laswell’s voice cut through comms. "Move fast."

Price gestured ahead. "Stay together. We find her."

---

The Hunting Stand

Ghost spotted something high in the trees—an old hunting stand.

Soap barely caught the flicker of movement above, just as a quiet, pained voice cut through the silence.

Soft Russian curses. Low, strained, muttered through clenched teeth.

TF141 stayed silent, watching.

She sat there, jacket beside her, shaking fingers digging into her own wound, prying the bullet out with the thin edge of a tool.

Krueger narrowed his eyes. "She’s done this before."

She gasped quietly as she yanked the bullet free, pressing her hand against her stomach.

Then, without hesitation, she tore apart her tech, hands shaky but capable, snapping parts together with precise movements.

A pen. Or what looked like one.

She pressed the tip to her wound, carefully tracing the raw flesh.

The ink stitched itself in, the wound pulling closed within seconds, as if the writing itself wove the skin back together.

Soap exhaled slowly. "What the fuck kind of tech is that?"

Price didn’t answer. He just watched.