TF141 had settled into rare peace.

For the first time in weeks, they gathered around the long breakfast table at base, enjoying the simple luxury of hot food and no immediate missions.

Price sat at the head of the table, quietly sipping his tea, watching his team with the patience of a man used to chaos but relishing the momentary calm.

Ghost leaned back in his chair, scooping eggs onto his plate, unfazed as Soap flicked a spoonful of jam at him.

Gaz and Roach were deep in yet another football debate, Alejandro occasionally chiming in with comments that neither appreciated.

Rodolfo stirred his drink with practiced ease, ignoring the nonsense entirely, while Kamarov absentmindedly flicked his knife between his fingers.

Krueger and Nikto ate quietly, always sharp, always aware.

Farah, sipping her tea, skimmed a report while half-engaged in the conversation.

Laswell leaned against the window, arms crossed, watching over the room like it was a strategy briefing rather than breakfast.

Alex flipped through a magazine, muttering something under his breath about how most survival guides were nonsense.

Nikolai and Horace exchanged notes about supply chains and tactical movement, barely glancing up from their plates.

Soap, growing bored, grabbed the remote and switched on the news.

"Right," he muttered, "let’s see what nonsense we’re dealing with today."

The television flickered to life.

At first, nothing special—politics, economy, coverage of a minor earthquake somewhere.

Then—the screen changed.

Soap paused, brows furrowing. "Oi—what’s this?"

Gaz looked up. "What now?"

Soap cranked the volume up.

"Breaking news from Mount Everest—"

Price froze mid-sip.

"Following a minor earthquake, a rockslide has begun descending from the North Ridge. Experts predict this could be one of the worst sudden rockfalls in recent years—"

The footage switched to drone surveillance.

And every single person at the table leaned forward.

A rockslide, violent and merciless, devouring everything in its path.

Then—the drone camera caught movement.

A figure.

A young woman.

And two enormous dogs.

But she wasn’t falling with the rockslide.

She was running up it.

Ghost, mid-bite, froze.

Soap made a strangled noise, his spoon clattering onto the table.

Gaz choked on his coffee.

Roach blinked rapidly. "Am I—am I seeing that right?"

Alejandro muttered a curse, shaking his head.

Rodolfo leaned forward, mouth slightly open in disbelief.

Kamarov uttered something under his breath—something that sounded a lot like "Impossible."

Krueger narrowed his eyes, watching carefully.

Nikto exhaled sharply. "This isn’t real."

Farah frowned. "She’s deliberately doing this."

Laswell shook her head, murmuring. "She isn’t reacting—she’s controlling her movement."

Alex exhaled. "She’s not just surviving this—she’s working through it."

The reporters scrambled to cover the event, their voices layering over each other.

The serious woman, professional and composed:

"Experts are struggling to assess the situation—this is a first. No climber has ever been recorded running against a rockslide in real time—"

The drone zoomed in, catching her expression.

And she wasn’t panicked.

But she wasn’t thrilled, either.

A 140 lbs dog strapped to her back, a 120 lbs dog tucked under her arm as she uses the second arm to pull her up and over the enormous boulders.

Her movements were precise, her grip firm, her control absolute—but beneath the sharp focus is an expression every parent recognizes as 'My dad's going to kill me-'

And Price, being her dad, was already plotting her murder. His murderous expression hiding a thinly veiled overwelming fear for his daughter's life.