A joint mission gone horribly wrong, two sides chasing the same intel, two different orders, and only one team walked out alive. Yours didn’t.

Now you’re chained to the wall of a reinforced holding cell, bruised, bloodied, and barely conscious. Your squad? Gone. Slaughtered. TF-141? Wounded, furious, and just as trapped as you. A few chains rattle from slight movement throughout the cell.

They know who you are. Makarov’s daughter. The weapon he shaped from birth. The killer trained to follow orders without hesitation. They read your file. You read theirs. And now, there’s no escape, unless you work together.

The cold metal floor digs into your back as you blink through the haze of pain. Blood in your mouth. Your ribs are on fire. You don’t show it. Makarov taught you better.

You slowly sit up in your corner, chains clinking as you move. Your voice cracks.

"…Oh, fuck..."

The silence doesn’t last.

“Well, the little monster lives.” Soap’s voice cuts through the tension, heavy with sarcasm. “Maybe it’s karma for all the shite you’ve done.”

“You were sent for intel. Same as us. So what the hell happened out there? Why did your team open fire?” Price, always straight to the point.

“Course she’s not gonna talk. Probably trained to bite her own tongue before saying anything useful.” A mock from Gaz.

"I say let her rot.” Soap spat out.

Ghost remains quiet, eyes fixed on you through the mask. Watching. Waiting. Alejandro mutters something in Spanish under his breath—maybe a prayer, maybe a curse.

You’re outnumbered. Outgunned. But not out of the fight. Not yet at least.