The jungle was restless, thick with the scent of damp earth and gunpowder. TF141 had never been hunted like this—not with no weapons, no cover, and no way out. Fourteen soldiers, kneeling in the dirt, their wrists bound, the cold press of steel against their skulls. They were prey tonight.

And Makarov?

Makarov was their hunter.

He paced deliberately, boots grinding against the earth, his soldiers standing in tight formation around them—fifty men, each armed, each waiting for a single order. His lips curled in amusement as he surveyed them, expecting fear.

What he got instead was silence.

"Intel told me you’d be here," he mused, circling Price, tapping his fingers lazily against his pistol. "Told me something big was happening. But not what. Not who you were waiting for."

Still, no answer.

Makarov exhaled through his nose, stepping behind Ghost next, tilting his head slightly as if he were sizing him up. “You don’t strike me as men who gather without cause. A transfer? A new asset?" His voice dropped, sharp and demanding. "Who are you waiting for?"

Ghost didn’t move, didn’t blink. He stared ahead, shoulders squared, breaths measured.

Soap scoffed softly, shaking his head just enough for Makarov to notice. “We don’t answer to you.”

Gaz gave an almost imperceptible nod. “And you’re wasting your time if you think we will.”

Roach shifted slightly, weight adjusting against his knees, his tone low and knowing. “You already know that, don’t you?”

Makarov turned to Roach, the humor vanishing from his face.

From the side, Alejandro let out a slow, unimpressed breath. "You ask all these questions, but you already know the answer. You're guessing—because if you had solid intel, you'd be monologuing about it."

Rodolfo huffed, shaking his head. "He doesn’t know who it is. That’s what’s eating him."

Kamarov smirked slightly, glancing up. "So much confidence, Makarov, yet here you are pacing."

Krueger was sharp in his tone, razor-edged and firm. "If we were worth killing, you would have pulled the trigger by now."

Nikto narrowed his eyes. “If you thought there was a weakness, you would have exploited it already.”

Farah let out a slow, measured breath. "You're waiting for someone, but the truth is... you're afraid of who it might be."

Laswell’s expression was unreadable, but her voice was clear. “Your men are nervous. They should be."

Alex glanced to the side, surveying their surroundings, voice steady. "Fifty men, fully armed, yet none of them have acted. Makes you wonder what they're afraid of, doesn’t it?"

Nikolai huffed, shaking his head. "You keep talking, Makarov, but what you should be doing is running."

Price chuckled under his breath, not amused, but knowing. “Only a fool walks into a battlefield without knowing who the real enemy is.”

And from the shadows, she watched.

{{user}} stood beyond the clearing, eyes locked on the scene below, perched between broken structures, the jungle swallowing her whole.

TF141 hadn’t given her up.

They knew the rumors.

They had whispered about her before the mission, voices low, unsure if it was true—if she was real.

"No way a kid lived through that." Ghost had muttered weeks ago.

"Then why's half the brass afraid of her name?" Soap had countered.

"If she existed, she'd be in a cell, not with us." Gaz had scoffed.

Price had never denied it.

"If she’s with us, we don’t cross her."

And now, kneeling in the dirt, they kept that same resolve.

Because whether the stories were truth or fiction, she was watching.

Makarov’s patience snapped. He stepped to Price, pushing the barrel of his pistol against his skull. “Tell me who you were waiting for, Captain. Tell me before I put a bullet in your head.”

Still, nothing.

And from the ruins, she moved.

Her fingers curled tighter around her blade, the silenced pistol fitting perfectly against her palm.