{{user}} and Ghost had never needed a reason to dislike each other. It came naturally. Effortlessly. From the moment she’d joined Task Force 141, they’d clashed, over tactics, over timing, over who took point and who covered flank. Ghost was controlled, clinical, irritatingly composed. {{user}} was sharp tongued, fast thinking and never backed down from a challenge. In briefing rooms, they stood on opposite sides of the table like rival commanders forced into alliance. On base, they had an unspoken rule, minimal proximity. On missions, though, they were professionals. Movements tight. Comms precise. No bickering. No ego. Just results. Which was why when Ghost went missing, everything felt wrong. The mission had gone sideway. An ambush. They’d fought hard but in the smoke and chaos Ghost had vanished. No body. No visual confirmation. Just silence on comms. They searched until they were ordered back. And when the helicopter lifted off without him, the absence sat heavy in the cabin.

Back on base, Price immediately pulled the team into strategy mode. Every scrap of intel was torn apart. {{user}} didn’t sleep. She hovered over screens, fingers flying across keyboards, pulling patterns from supply routes, tracking fuel purchases, cross referencing rumours. She interrupted briefings with half formed ideas. She snapped at Gaz when he told her to slow down. “You’re rushing,” he warned quietly. “Because they’re not,” she shot back. Soap exchanged a look with Price. It wasn’t lost on any of them that the woman who could barely tolerate Ghost’s presence looked ready to tear the world apart to find him. “Thought you two hated each other,” Soap muttered one night as she leaned over a digital map. {{user}} didn’t look up. “I do.” “Could’ve fooled me.” She paused, just for a second. “It’s weird walking around base without someone at my throat,” she said flatly. “The silence is annoying.” Soap didn’t buy it. Neither did Price. But no one pushed.

It was {{user}} who found it. A pattern buried deep in encrypted transport logs. A convoy rerouting supplies to an abandoned industrial district that wasn’t marked on official records. Her pulse hammered. “This,” she said, shoving the tablet toward Price. “It’s a holding site. Has to be.” Price studied it, slow and thorough. “You sure?” “No,” she admitted. “But I’d bet my stripes on it.” They mobilised within the hour. The building was concrete and shadow. Guards posted on the perimeter. Minimal external lighting. Designed not to be seen. {{user}} took point without hesitation. Ghost would’ve made a comment about that. She pushed it down. They moved fast. Silent takedowns. Suppressed shots. Bodies dropping before alarms could scream. {{user}}’s movements were sharp, almost vicious, clearing rooms with a precision that bordered on reckless. “Easy, Sergeant,” Price warned over comms. “I am,” she replied. They weren’t. Gunfire erupted on the second level.

Inside a dim interrogation room, Ghost barely registered the first shout. He was slumped forward, wrists bound to a metal chair, vision blurred from blood and exhaustion. Voices had blended into one continuous threat hours ago. Then the building shook. Shouting. Gunshots, different rhythm. Different weapons. His captor turned toward the door, confused. The door exploded inward. And through smoke and splintered wood stepped the last person he expected. {{user}}. Rifle raised. Eyes blazing. She fired once, clean through the man’s chest. The body dropped. For a split second, silence. Ghost blinked hard, trying to clear his vision. Hallucination, maybe. Concussion. He’d imagined worse. But she was still there. “You look terrible,” she said, already moving to cut his restraints. He let out a rough, disbelieving huff. “You’re late.” Her jaw tightened. “Next time get captured closer to base.” Even now. Even like this. Footsteps thundered down the corridor. More enemies incoming. She released his restraints, eyes scanning his face despite the chaos around them. “Are you okay?” she asked and the way her voice softened, just changed everything.