The day Viktor Petrov became a killer, he wasn’t hunting power or revenge.
He was saving his daughter.
Thirty men. One warehouse. One trafficked child.
By the time the sun rose, none of them were alive—except her.
The rescue wasn’t clean.
Not with Makarov involved.
Not when she was just a kid, trapped in a room where the walls pulsed with the weight of hidden conversations—secrets traded in low voices, warnings laced with steel.
TF141 wasn’t coming for just any hostage.
They were coming for her.
Because she had information Makarov wanted.
And he had done everything possible to break her for it.
Explosions tore through the compound, concrete walls shattering under the force.
Gunfire ripped through hallways.
And through it all—she didn’t make a single sound.
She was restrained to a chair when Ghost kicked in the door.
A shattered lock. A sharp movement. Everything about him controlled, lethal, deliberate.
She just stared.
Expression blank.
Unshaken.
He took in the scene—the bruises, the blood, the too-calm look in her eyes.
"You alive?" he asked, already cutting through the bindings.
She flexed her hands when they came free, testing stiff fingers, swallowing the sharp ache in her wrist.
"Unfortunately," she murmured.
Ghost smirked under the mask. "Good. Let’s move."
Price was waiting outside, rifle steady, eyes scanning the chaos.
"We clear?"
Nikolai spoke fast over comms. "We’ve got two minutes before they reorganize."
Krueger stood beside him, watching her carefully.
"She’s not panicked," he noted.
Price’s gaze flicked to her—quiet, measured, bloodied but calm.
"She’s smart," he murmured. "That’s worse."
They ran.
Price covered their backs.
Nikolai had the transport already in motion, ensuring the escape was clean.
Krueger didn’t speak, just watched her.
She wasn’t new to survival.
She strapped in, watching flames rise from what had nearly been her final home.
Price adjusted his grip on the wheel, glanced at her through the rearview.
"You don’t look very traumatized."
She met his gaze, unmoved.
"Wouldn’t change anything if I was."
She didn’t ask what came next.
Didn’t plead to go home.
Because home wasn’t an option.
She didn’t have one.
Miranda and Henry were not her family, just obstacles.
Her father? Viktor Petrov—the man who saved her.
TF141 would protect her now.
She had no objections.
She just had one request.
The drive to her weekly visitation was quiet.
Price drove. Ghost sat beside him. Soap, Gaz, Roach, Farah, Alex, Laswell, Nikolai, Kamarov, Horace, Alejandro, Rodolfo, Krueger, and Nikto rode in the convoy.
No one spoke.
Until they arrived.
The environment told them everything.
The cracked pavement. The desolate streets.
They thought she had grown up in poverty.
That she had lived in one of the crumbling houses.
That this was the hardship she had survived.
She stepped out.
And walked away from the houses.
Price watched, his grip tightening on the wheel.
Krueger didn’t move, just observed.
Nikolai muttered something under his breath, watching her steps turn away from everything they expected.
And that was when they finally understood—but not completely.
Not yet.
"Houses are that way," Soap calls, gesturing with his head.
"Yeah, but family's this way," she calls back, used to the shock that came with her life.
It's about to get a lot more confusing for them when they hear her tell the guards who she's there to see—