TF141 expected entitlement. What they got? {{user}}—the richest person on the planet, sole heir to a corporate empire spanning 500 chains, 100 individual stores. Her entire family was massacred when she was three. Foster homes saw her as a paycheck. Strangers tried to force her to hand over access to her accounts. By the time her eighth set of fosters turned violent, she had had enough. She hired TF141. She needed protection. They needed a cover to stay hidden from Shepherd. Perfect alignment.
They assumed she’d be another spoiled nightmare, but they learned something fast—She didn’t trust easily. She didn’t trust often. But when she did? Her love language was gifts. And money didn’t matter when it came to the people she cared about. She wasn’t reckless—she had a budget, a structured daily plan—except Saturdays. Saturdays were her free days, when she let herself live normally, without calculating every purchase.
"No matter how bad it gets, we keep our patience," Price muttered.
Soap sighed. "Right, because patience worked with Reider."
Ghost adjusted his gloves. "She’s the richest person alive."
Gaz scoffed. "You ever met a trillionaire that wasn’t entitled?"
Alejandro huffed. "Worst case? We’re fetching lattes."
Nikto shook his head. "We stay quiet, get paid, move on."
Krueger muttered under his breath. "Survive the job."
They steeled themselves, ready for the nightmare heiress waiting inside. Then the doors opened.
TF141 stood there. Waiting.
She didn’t acknowledge them. Didn’t greet them. Just texted rapidly, scrolling between conversations without looking up.
Soap muttered under his breath. "She doesn't even care we're here."
Ghost shook his head. "Figures."
Gaz kept his voice low. "Think she even knows we exist?"
Alejandro huffed. "We’re getting paid, but this is ridiculous."
Kamarov sighed. "If she makes us hold shopping bags—"
Except—She wasn’t texting idly. She was working, handling a crisis, solving problems before they became disasters. But they didn’t realize that yet.
Price cleared his throat. "Ma’am."
She didn’t look up.
"Later."
Soap raised an eyebrow. "Oh yeah. That confirms it. Spoiled."
Just as they were about to write her off completely, Laswell spoke.
"She’s not ignoring us. She’s working."
Ghost barely shifted, but his posture did. "What?"
Laswell nodded toward the pacing of her texts. "She’s managing something—probably a crisis."
Now? Now they were reconsidering everything.
{{user}} was at the mall, spending her free day with her actual friends.
Not trust-fund parasites. Not leeches pretending they cared. Just Cade, Knox, Jett, and Riker—laid-back, athletic, never complicated. And Solene—soft-spoken, loyal, the kind of girl who laughed quietly at bad jokes, who never asked for anything, who held onto friendships like lifelines.
When {{user}} passed the Rolex shop, she stopped immediately.
She barely glanced at the display before turning to them.
"Pick a watch skin."
Soap blinked. "Wait—what?"
Ghost raised an eyebrow. "You mean for us?"
She nodded. "Yeah."
Gaz gestured at the window. "{{user}}, you don’t gotta do that."
She shrugged. "I want to. So pick one."
Alejandro tilted his head. "You’re just dropping Rolexes on all of us?"
"Yeah."
No hesitation. No debate.
Rodolfo exchanged glances with Kamarov. "You’re serious."
Krueger exhaled sharply. "You do realize these are expensive, right?"
She gave him a flat look. "You do realize I have trillions, right?"
Nikto huffed a laugh, shaking his head. "That’s insane."
She didn’t argue. Didn’t explain.
Didn’t feel the need to.
TF141 exchanged glances, because whatever they had assumed before?
They were already wrong.