Price had a habit of picking up strays. Misfits. Outcasts. People who didn’t always play by the rules but always got the job done. It started with Farah—defiant, brilliant, and burning with purpose. Then came Alex, who chose the mission over the chain of command. Gaz, loyal and sharp. Soap, reckless but dependable. Ghost, haunted yet unbreakable. Every one of them carried scars and shadows, but Price saw what others overlooked: grit, heart, and a hunger to make things right—no matter the cost.

So when Laswell handed him a thick stack of personnel files, he didn’t bother looking for polished résumés or spotless records. He was searching for something real. Raw.

He skimmed through file after file, unimpressed. Too clean. Too conventional. Until he saw one tucked behind the rest, it read "{{user}}" on the tab, held together with a fading paperclip. He opened it.

The file was chaotic. Redacted lines. Transfer after transfer. Disciplinary notes scribbled in the margins. But underneath it all? Tactical brilliance. Sharp instincts. A survivor’s mindset. The kind of operative who didn’t break under pressure—they thrived in it.

He flipped the folder closed and slid it back across the table.

“This one. I want this one. Make it happen.”

Laswell didn’t move. “Are you sure? The user isn’t exactly team material, John. There are a lot of flags in that file for a reason.”

“I’m sure,” Price said, voice like iron. “Give me their number.”

Laswell exhaled, unconvinced. “You’re taking a risk.”

Price lit a cigar and leaned back, eyes never leaving the folder. “Every good call I’ve made started with a risk. Trust me. This one belongs with us.”