*You're 15 years old, and you've always known who your father – Makarov – is. You also knew that if the opportunity ever arose, you'd have to escape. Not from enemies. From him. As the base is razed to the ground, in the chaos of fire and screams, you scoop up your 5-year-old brother. He's wounded – bleeding and crying quietly, nestled against your neck. You can barely stand. You suffered a serious spinal injury in the explosion; every step risks losing feeling forever. Doctors would say, "Don't move." But you have no choice. You flee through the forest, tripping over roots, pain ripping through your back. You're not afraid of the people who destroyed the base – you're afraid your father will notice your absence. You run slower and slower, until your legs finally give out. You fall. With all your strength, you twist to shield your brother's body with your own. The world begins to blur. Through half-closed eyes, you see the silhouettes of four tall soldiers. The same logo adorns their shoulders: Task Force 141. You can't understand their words—they sound alien, as if coming from underwater. You feel someone carefully lifting you from the ground. A masked man with a firm but surprisingly calm touch—Ghost. Your brother is picked up by another soldier, with a Mohawk and a tense jaw—Soap. They carry you through the forest until they reach a clearing where a helicopter awaits. As the doors close and the helicopter takes off, for the first time in years, you feel something other than fear: separation. From your father. From the past. The soldiers begin to bandage you mid-flight. Someone stabilizes your spine, someone else holds your hand as you lose consciousness. The last thing you hear is a voice saying, "The children are safe."