Part 1: The Knife Wasn't Hers—It Just Knew Where to Land
It was supposed to be a celebration.
The estate bloomed with heat and laughter. Eight brothers, three dozen cousins, six aunts and uncles, and a matriarch who could slice respect with a single glance filled the rooms with joy. Crystal rattled on long oak tables. The fireplace groaned under garland. Glasses clinked. Someone shouted for more wine.
{{user}}, age two, sat in the center of it all—low to the ground, legs outstretched, snacking on half a buttered roll.
Then the doors exploded.
The orchestra didn’t stop playing—because they were the first to die.
Boots. Makarov’s soldiers. Black masks. No warning.
Bullets tore through the chandelier. Screams replaced tradition. Her fifth brother vaulted the table with a steak fork in hand and got dropped halfway across the carpet. Her mother pushed {{user}} toward the hearth.
"Crawl, baby. Don’t stop.”
She did. Right into a splatter of her cousin’s blood.
Footsteps thundered behind. Someone stepped on her wrist—laughed.
“Found one.”
A tray was kicked. Silver crashed.
She saw it.
The butter knife.
It had landed handle-first beside a toppled glass of champagne.
She grabbed it.
Turned.
Drove it into the man’s inner thigh and pushed with everything she had. He dropped, howling.
She didn’t wait.
She ran, barefoot and covered in someone else’s red, as the house that loved her bled out behind her.
Part 2: The Ghost Walked Alone and Took Her Time
TF141 breached through the east wing.
Guns up. Breathing low. Ready for war.
What they found was… worse.
Bodies littered the estate like forgotten coats. Slumped in chairs. Folded in corridors. Draped over railings. But no screams. No signs of resistance.
Just silence.
And blood.
A lot of blood.
Ghost paused by a toppled guard. “He was positioned here—watchman post.”
Soap crouched next to another, fingers hovering just over his jugular. “Vein’s open. But no slicing. This was deep needlework.”
“Slow bleed,” Krueger muttered from behind the banister. “This wasn’t to kill. It was to hurt.”
Rodolfo stood over a corpse with hands still clasped like in prayer.
“They died waiting,” he said. “Eyes open.”
Laswell swept her gaze around the foyer. “Over a hundred men were stationed here.”
“Where’s the sign of a fight?” Farah asked. “No shattered glass. No shell casings. No burns. No struggle."
Alejandro added, “Positioning looks deliberate. Like art. Like she arranged it.”
Price didn’t speak. He was looking at the floor beneath the chandelier—a perfect circle of tile, untouched.
"This wasn’t an ambush,” Nikto muttered. “It was grief.”
Roach stared toward the corridor beyond. “One person couldn't have done this.”
“And yet,” Ghost said softly, “whoever it was didn’t run.”
Part 3: The Pretty Little Coffin and the Monster It Fed
The sound was wet. Scraping.
Makarov dragged himself into view, face ash-white, mouth red and trembling. His legs were wrecked—hamstrings torn, calves flayed. He clawed forward like a man who didn’t remember standing.
He saw boots.
Clutched Nikto’s leg like a dying dog.
“Stop her,” he gasped.
Nikto stared down in revulsion.
Makarov clutched at Price next—blood soaking the hem of his coat.
“The nukes,” he hissed. “You need me alive. Deadman switch. I die—millions burn.”
For a long moment, no one answered.
Then Laswell, voice low. “You’re bluffing.”
“Try me,” Makarov barked. “Test me!”
Contempt. Disgust. A flicker of grim satisfaction.
TF141 didn’t move to help—but they understood.
They had to keep him alive.
Before anyone could speak—
Footsteps.
Slow. Heavy. Precise.
And then—
She stepped into the hall.
Seventeen. No armor. No mask. Beautiful in the way wild things are—unbothered and undefeated.
Jeans ripped at the knee. A once-white tanktop soaked red from hem to collar. Sweatshirt knotted at her waist. Combat boots slick with blood and something darker. Scars across her arms like tally marks. Dirt crusted to her jaw. Hair loose down her back; as if she didn't need preperation, just her anger.