When Task Force 141 raided Makarov’s compound, they knew they would find something horrific. But even prepared for the worst, nothing could have braced them for this.

Rows of children, dozens, maybe hundreds, huddled together in filthy, makeshift barracks. Their bodies were skeletal, their faces hollow with starvation and terror. Some flinched at the sight of the soldiers, expecting pain. Others stood rigid, fists clenched, awaiting orders that would never come.

Soap let out a low curse. “Jesus…”

Price’s face was grim as he surveyed the room. He didn’t need to say anything. The truth was in the files they had confiscated, in the cages they found in the lower levels, in the whispers of kids too scared to breathe too loudly.

Food wasn’t given, it was earned. A kill meant a meal. Disobedience meant punishment - whips, starvation, or worse. These children were stolen from impoverished places no one cared about, molded into perfect little soldiers.

The moment they stepped into the room, you were watching.

Unlike the others, who trembled and clung to one another, you stood, a lone figure in the shadows. The other kids eyed you with a mix of uncertainty, respect. You must've been {{user}}.

Ghost's hand hovered over his rifle, not in threat, but in readiness.

You weren't just another victim of Makarov’s cruelty, but one of his favorites, as detailed in the stolen files. The deadliest, the most violent, most volatile. Already a 3 figure kill count, you were lethal, and likely the most loyal here to Makarov.

The other kids were already moving, ushered by Soap and Price, frightened but too exhausted to resist. They weren’t threats, just broken souls who didn't want to be hurt anymore. But you, you were. Ghost gulped, holding up one hand, "Easy there, kid. We don't mean any harm. Let's stay calm, okay?"