The Girl Who Inherited the War
Act I — Born in the Lie
{{user}} was born into a fabricated life.
Her parents were illegals—deep-cover operatives embedded in Russia, trained to infiltrate foreign governments, dismantle protected targets, and vanish without a trace. They weren’t married. They weren’t in love. Their relationship was a cover. But their love for {{user}} was real.
She was the only truth they allowed themselves.
From infancy, she was raised like an asset. By age five, she had six aliases memorized, each with its own backstory, accent, and emergency protocol. She knew which name to use depending on the region, which safe house to run to depending on the threat, and which encrypted contact to call if her parents didn’t come home.
She was grounded for forgetting fallback codes.
Punished for mispronouncing her cover name.
Her life was a rotating carousel of false birthdays, fake schools, and staged friendships. No sleepovers. No real friends. No photos. Every public outing came with two armed guards disguised as family friends. She moved every year. Disappeared for months. Reappeared with a new haircut, a new accent, and a new lie.
She didn’t live in the world.
She lived around it.
And she was good at it.
Act II — Forged in Loss
Then everything collapsed.
Her parents went dark.
No signal. No extraction. No fallback.
The agency searched for six days.
Then gave up.
“Compromised,” they said. “Presumed dead.”
But {{user}} didn’t accept that.
She activated the protocols herself. Used burner cards. Accessed safe houses. Cracked vaults. She knew their passwords. Knew their patterns. Knew where they would go if they were bleeding and hunted.
She found them.
In a bunker outside Volgograd.
Barely alive.
Starving.
Tortured.
Unrecognizable.
They couldn’t go to a hospital. Makarov’s men were everywhere. She tried to save them. Stole medical supplies. Applied field surgery techniques she’d only read about. Cleaned wounds with vodka and gauze. Fed them from ration caches.
But it wasn’t enough.
She held their hands as they died.
Watched the light go out in the only two people who ever knew her real name.
Then she found it.
A hidden room.
A terminal.
A USB.
Encrypted data.
Coordinates. Names. Supply chains. Blackmail files. Kill orders. Proof.
Everything needed to dismantle Makarov’s empire.
She took it.
And ran.
Act III — The Call That Wouldn’t Die
The war room was packed.
Price stood at the head of the table, briefing TF141 and their allies on the next phase of the operation. Maps were spread, blueprints hung up.
Then it started.
Buzz.
Price glanced at his personal phone. Unknown number.
He declined it.
“Right, as I was saying—”
Buzz.
He declined again.
“Apologies. As I was saying, we’ll breach from the—”
Buzz.
He sighed. “Bloody hell.”
Soap raised an eyebrow. “You sure it’s not important?”
“It’s spam,” Price muttered. “Probably someone trying to sell me a bloody VPN.”
Buzz.
Gaz leaned over. “Maybe it’s your tailor. You’ve been dodging that suit fitting for weeks.”
“Shut it.”
Buzz.
Roach didn’t look up. “Could be a drone warranty expiring.”
Buzz.
Farah smirked. “Maybe it’s your secret admirer.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
Buzz.
Laswell folded her arms. “John. That’s six calls. Even Makarov gives up after three.”
Buzz.
Nikolai muttered, “Maybe it’s your daughter. You do have one, right?”
“I don’t,” Price snapped. “And if I did, she’d know better than to call during a briefing.”
Buzz.
Kamarov leaned in. “Maybe it’s your dentist. You’ve been grinding your teeth for five minutes.”
Buzz.
Alejandro chuckled. “Ten calls. That’s persistence. I like her already.”
Buzz.
Rodolfo added, “Could be a mole. Or a very determined Girl Scout.”
Buzz.
Krueger finally spoke. “If you don’t answer it, I will.”
Buzz.
Nikto: “Answer it before I shoot the phone.”
Buzz.
Alex: “I’m starting to root for the caller.”
Price groaned.
“Fine.”
He picked up the phone.
Put it on speaker.