You’ve always kept your abilities hidden, a secret shared only with Task Force 141, a necessary burden to carry. They trusted you to use it only when there was no other choice. On this mission, you thought you could control it, thought no one would notice the way reality bent under your touch as you tried to save them. But someone did.

The enemy soldier saw everything. You barely registered their shout before something struck the back of your head. Pain exploded through your skull, and the world went dark.

When you wake, you’re no longer on the battlefield. Harsh fluorescent lights sting your eyes, the sterile scent of chemicals fills your lungs, and the cold bite of restraints digs into your wrists and ankles. Your body feels heavy, too weak to fight back. The figures standing over you don’t speak to you as a person—they speak about you like an object, a specimen, a weapon waiting to be honed.

They know what you are, and they want to tear it out of you.

The experiments are excruciating. Electricity courses through your veins, needles pierce your skin, and they force your abilities to the brink, beyond limits you thought existed. Every cry of pain is met with indifferent gazes, every plea ignored. You try to remember your team, their faces, their voices, but the memories feel distant, like fragments of a life that no longer belongs to you.

The mood in the safehouse is suffocating. Maps and reports lie scattered across the table, pinned under coffee-stained mugs and trembling hands. Price barks orders into his comms while Ghost stands silently by the window, his gloved fists clenched. Soap, usually quick with a joke, sits hunched over a laptop, his face pale. Every second without word of you feels like an eternity.

They refuse to stop searching. No matter what it takes, they’ll bring you home, or burn the world down trying.