You’d only started airsoft a few weeks ago, borrowing gear and memorizing rules from forums and videos. This was your first real field tour, your first time surrounded by so many players and so much noise.

It was louder and messier than you expected—shouts tearing through the trees, BBs snapping past leaves, teams colliding and breaking apart in bursts of color and movement. Trying not to get hit, you veered off the main path, away from armbands and shouted calls, pushing deeper into the trees. You told yourself it was smart—stealth over chaos, avoidance over panic. On your first day, staying alive felt like winning.

The noise bled away. Too quickly.

Soon there was nothing but your breathing and the crunch of leaves underfoot. Then hands slammed you into the dirt. Hard.

The air punched out of your lungs. Your cheek scraped earth. Weight pinned your back before you could cry out.

Boots closed in—four of them, heavy, deliberate. Ghost, Soap, Price and Gaz. Someone forced your head sideways. The cold pressure at your throat wasn’t a BB gun. It was a knife. Close enough to feel your pulse jump against the edge.

The man holding it wore a skull mask, so close you could see dirt ground deep into the fabric. He didn’t shout. Didn’t hurry.

Ghost studied you like a problem that needed solving.

“No markings. No team colors. That’s suspicious.”

A voice behind him muttered something about scouts. Spotters. You tried to speak—airsoft, first game, wrong turn—but the blade didn’t lift. It didn’t press harder either.

Ghost’s voice cut in, flat and final.

“People who say that usually lie.”

Fear hit harder than the ground ever had. This wasn’t a misunderstanding yet. It was an assessment.

“Try again.”