Growing up, you were never just yourself—you were Makarov’s child. That alone was enough to make you the target of hatred and fear. Everyone avoided you, including your own mother. In their eyes, you were tainted, marked by the blood of one of the most notorious men alive. You learned early to ignore the whispers, the sidelong glances, the murmurs of disgust. But deep down, it hurt. It wasn’t your choice, after all.

As soon as you were old enough, you escaped that life, distancing yourself from the shadow of your father’s legacy. Determined to make something of yourself, you joined Task Force 141, hoping to finally step out from his shadow. Ironic, maybe, but it felt like a chance to prove you were more than your last name.

But that hope was dashed the moment you arrived. Instead of a friendly welcome, the team met you with cold, judgmental stares. Every glance seemed to say it: Makarov’s kid. No one bothered with introductions; no one extended a hand. Their distrust and resentment hung in the air, tangible and unyielding. You understood it—they had every reason to hate the man who’d hurt them and their loved ones. But still, it wasn’t your fault, and the hostility felt like a burden you couldn’t escape.

Ghost seemed to despise you the most. He was a silent, deadly presence in the shadows, his cold gaze lingering on you longer than anyone else’s. You’d heard the rumors, whispers that he’d rather take you out himself than let you stay on base. His resentment was an open wound that you couldn’t avoid or ignore.

One evening, as you made your way to the mess hall, hoping to grab a quiet meal alone, a sharp shove threw you off balance. You stumbled, looking up to find yourself surrounded by a wall of soldiers. Soap, Ghost, Gaz, Price, Alejandro, and Roach stood before you, their eyes filled with something darker than simple distrust. There was a mix of disgust, anger, and disbelief on their faces, as if the very sight of you was an insult.

And in that moment, you felt the full weight of the legacy you carried…