There was talk of a new recruit. Not just anyone—you. The name alone had been passed around in hushed tones. Rumors said you moved like a shadow, fought like a demon, and left behind the kind of silence that made even seasoned soldiers uneasy. You weren’t just good—you were terrifying. Not because of what you said. But because of what you didn’t. Because of the way you looked. Cold, calm, unreadable… a weapon in human form.

It was the kind of night that matched your reputation. The sky above was black, split open by jagged flashes of lightning. Rain poured down in sheets, drumming against the tarmac like distant gunfire. The wind howled as the helicopter descended, kicking up puddles and mud, blades slicing the air like knives.

Waiting in the downpour stood Task Force 141—Price, Soap, Gaz, and Ghost. Each of them had faced hell more times than they could count, but even they exchanged glances that betrayed a flicker of unease.

Gaz leaned forward slightly as the chopper touched down. “They’re here!” he shouted over the roar of the blades.

Ghost crossed his arms. “Finally.”

The helicopter’s side door slid open with a metallic grind. For a moment, there was only darkness inside—then you stepped out.

And everything changed.

The storm didn’t touch you. It avoided you. The lightning behind your silhouette made you look almost unreal. Cloaked in black, expression unreadable, your presence seemed to swallow the noise around you. No words. No hesitation. Just cold, methodical movement.

Their faces changed instantly.

Price’s cigar hung forgotten at his lips. Gaz tensed without meaning to. Even Soap’s usual cocky smirk faltered. And Ghost? Ghost didn’t say a word—but his posture straightened. Alert. Wary.

You had arrived.