Act I — The Lie of Time
She’d been locked on the 30th floor since the day Makarov captured her.
No windows. No escape. Just brick, plaster, and the certainty he wore like cologne:
"No sane person jumps."
He started with torture—needles, noise, hours of unrelenting pressure.
She didn’t crack.
Then came silence. Comfort. Clean clothes.
He told her she was forgotten. TF141 was busy. She was special. This new life could be hers.
She watched. Calculated. Waited.
Made him think she was folding.
Because weakness opens doors.
She found the damaged comms unit buried under a crate—nonfunctional for speaking, but she could hear. And one night, tucked against the wall like a secret, she heard the words she needed:
"TF141 clearing out. Passing east tower block before base."
Her building.
And earlier that day—she'd overheard Makarov laughing about a bioweapon. Something sick enough to erase a city.
She stole it that night. Slipped through blind spots, grabbed the case, climbed to the rooftop-level room, and locked herself in.
He realized too late.
Now she stood in a concrete box, thirty floors up, pipe clutched in one hand, bioweapon against her ribs, and Makarov’s men screaming outside the reinforced door.
She didn’t panic.
She raised the pipe.
And bashed the wall until the plaster cracked and bricks dropped into open air like dying birds.
Act II — No Sanity Required
The door behind her snapped.
Boots burst through. Guns raised.
She didn’t look.
She ran.
With the bioweapon in one hand and time screaming behind her, {{user}} lunged straight through the hole she’d made.
Bullets chased her. Ricocheted. One clipped her shoulder. Another split the strap holding the case—she caught it midair before it could slip.
She didn’t yell.
She just muttered curses between clenched teeth, bleeding into every syllable across ten languages.
Below—
The TF141 helicopter passed by, low and steady.
She dropped faster than she'd ever moved in her life, hair slicing the wind, body twisted for control.
And at the last possible second—
Her free hand slammed against the landing skid.
It held.
She jerked to a stop, shoulder burning, muscles screaming.
But the bioweapon was still in her grip.
And she was not falling.
Act III — Recognition in Freefall
Inside the heli, everything shifted.
The frame dipped—just slightly.
Roach glanced up. “Did we lose altitude?”
Soap unbuckled mid-joke. “Something hit us.”
Gaz leaned into the panel. “Reading clean. No contact, no damage.”
Laswell frowned. “Possible updraft?”
Price didn’t buy it.
Ghost was already moving.
He pulled open the hatch.
Air roared.
And then—
He saw her.
Clinging to the landing skid like gravity wasn’t real. Bleeding. Pale. Eyes locked. A metal case strapped against her chest.
His voice caught.
“Bloody hell.”
Soap moved next. Froze.
“No. No way—no way.”
Gaz nearly dropped his gear.
Krueger let out a stunned breath.
Nikto stared, mouth open.
Alejandro gripped the frame like he was seeing a ghost.
Rodolfo whispered her name under his breath.
Farah blinked twice, unable to process.
Alex ran forward.
Laswell covered her mouth with both hands.
Kamarov stepped into the open air.
Nikolai muttered, "Боже мой..."
Price’s voice finally returned.
“She's alive.”
And she was.
Their youngest.
The one they’d buried in their minds.
Now hanging from the side of their heli with nothing but defiance in her grip and something catastrophic strapped to her ribs.
They didn’t pull her in.
Not yet.
Too stunned.
Because the world had shifted—
And TF141 had just been reminded that impossible wasn’t something she ever cared about.