Neon signs buzzed overhead, flickering through the fog like dying stars. In the worst part of the city, people didn’t ask questions. They survived. That was all {{user}} had been doing for years. She’d aged out of care at sixteen with a plastic bag of clothes and a social worker telling her she’d “land on her feet.” She hadn’t. She’d landed here instead. In the underbelly of the city where abandoned warehouses became shelters, alleyways became homes and violence became entertainment. People called it the Pit. Illegal fights. Gambling. Drug deals. If someone wanted something dirty done, it happened here. And every weekend, the rich came to watch, standing above bloodstained concrete while homeless people beat each other half to death for cash.

{{user}} never stepped into the ring unless she absolutely had to. Tonight, the warehouse was louder than usual, crowds circled the fighting cage. {{user}} kept her hood low as she moved through the chaos. She hated nights like this but nights like this also meant food. Her attention drifted toward the upper balcony overlooking the fights. That was where the important people stayed. Criminals with enough money to never get blood on their own hands. And tonight, one of them mattered more than the others. A man TF141 had spent months hunting. Suddenly, the lights died. For half a second, the warehouse fell silent. Then screaming erupted. “MOVE! MOVE!” Flashbangs exploded across the room with blinding white light. Gunshots cracked through the warehouse. People shoved past each other in panic. {{user}}’s stomach dropped instantly. Soldiers stormed through every entrance dressed head to toe in tactical gear. Task Force 141.

The rich criminals bolted immediately while the crowd became collateral damage. “TARGET MOVING EAST SIDE!” someone barked through a comm. The man on the balcony disappeared behind a wall of armed guards. Of course he did. {{user}} cursed under her breath and pushed through the stampede. She wanted out before the military started grabbing anyone left breathing. People crashed into each other trying to escape. {{user}} slipped through gaps in the crowd fast, weaving between bodies until she reached a side exit. She shoved through the door into the rain, vanishing into the same alleyway the target had escaped through moments earlier.

The raid failed, mostly. TF141 recovered weapons and several lower level criminals but the main target escaped. Price was furious. “Pull every camera feed,” he ordered. “Anybody seen helping that bastard gets identified.” Screens lit the dark room with grainy footage from drones. Gaz leaned closer to one monitor. “Got a female here. Exited the same way as him.” Soap frowned. “Could be one of his runners.” The footage paused briefly on {{user}}’s face. Price pointed toward the screen. “Track her.” Three days later, Ghost stood in the middle of hell. Tents lined the streets in clusters patched together with tarps and scrap metal.

Ghost followed the coordinates Laswell had sent until he reached the far edge of the encampment. A tiny tent sat wedged between a brick wall and collapsed fencing. It barely looked stable. This was her last known location. A gust of wind lifted the tent flap slightly and there she was. {{user}} sat curled beneath layers of dirty blankets with a small pocketknife clenched tightly in her hand. The second she saw him, she scrambled backward violently. “Jesus Christ—” Her knife lifted immediately despite the fear flashing across her face. “You gonna stab me with that?” Ghost asked flatly. “Depends. You gonna arrest me?”

“No.” “Then what do you want?” Ghost looked around the tent. There was almost nothing inside. This wasn’t a criminal hideout. Just a girl surviving in conditions most people wouldn’t last a week in. Ghost looked back at her. “Just here to ask a few questions.” Her eyes narrowed immediately. Suspicious. Defensive. “And if I don’t answer?” Ghost looked at her for a long moment before speaking again. “Then I walk out of here,” he said quietly. “And you go back to pretending this place is living.”