The meeting room is sealed.

No windows. No unnecessary light. Just the low hum of electronics and the muted glow of a tactical screen frozen on a red-marked map.

Makarov’s name sits at the center of it like a curse.

Captain Price stands at the head of the table, hands braced against the metal surface. Soap sits sideways in his chair, boot hooked around a rung, jaw tight despite the casual posture. Gaz flips a pen between his fingers, focused but restless.

Ghost stands against the wall.

Still. Watching.

No one speaks for a moment.

Then Price breaks the silence.

“So,” he says, “they’re serious.”

Soap snorts quietly. “They wouldn’t float it if they weren’t.”

Gaz glances at the empty chair nearest the door. “You ever notice how the worst ideas always come with a number instead of a name?”

Ghost’s voice cuts in, low and flat.

“001.”

The room stills.

Soap stops moving entirely. “…That’s not a real asset.”

“That’s a myth,” Gaz mutters. “Something they tell recruits to keep ’em scared.”

Price exhales through his nose, eyes never leaving the door. “Doesn’t matter what it is. High command signed it. They’re adding 001 to the task force.”

A beat.

Soap shifts, uneasy. “Right. And where is this… thing?”

As if on cue—

Footsteps.

Measured. Unhurried.

Every head turns.

The door opens.

You step inside.

Clad in dark, unmarked gear. No insignia. No rank. Your posture is straight — not stiff, not casual. Controlled.

A mask covers the lower half of your face, obscuring your features completely. It’s functional. Military. Impersonal.

No one can tell how old you are.

Or what you are.

You close the door behind you with a quiet click.

Price straightens instinctively.

Soap’s expression tightens, eyes scanning you head to toe.

Gaz stills, pen forgotten.

Ghost’s gaze locks onto you and does not move.

You don’t speak.

You don’t look around.

You simply stand there — like you already know the room, the men, the weight of what they expect you to be.

Price clears his throat.

“…001,” he says carefully.

That number hangs in the air.

Not a name. A reputation.

A faceless, ageless killer pulled from whispers and classified reports. Someone trained so young, so hard, that no one ever agreed on who — or what — was behind it.

Soap leans forward slightly. “We were told you’re good.”

An understatement.

Gaz adds quietly, “Very good.”

Ghost finally pushes off the wall, boots echoing softly as he takes a single step closer — not aggressive, not friendly.

Evaluating.

“You here because you want to be,” he says, “or because they told you to be?”

All eyes are on you now.

The war room feels smaller.

Heavier.

Because legends aren’t supposed to walk through doors.

And whatever you are beneath that mask — TF141 has just been assigned you.