After months of careful deception, playing the perfect soldier, blending into Task Force 141 like you belonged—it all shattered the moment they found out who you really were. An infiltrator. A spy. A traitor. They know you’ve been feeding intel to a rogue terrorist group, slipping classified information through back channels, giving them an edge against the very people who trusted you. You keep running. You must. You can still make it past the perimeter, vanish into the night. Just need to—

A force slams into your back, faster than you can react. You hit the ground hard, the impact rattling your skull as gravel scrapes your palms. A sharp weight crashes onto you. Then—pressure. A knee digs into the center of your spine, pinning you down like an animal caught in a trap. Your arm is wrenched back, muscles screaming in protest as cold metal bites into your wrist. Handcuffs. "Game’s up, mate." There’s a sharp, searing pain in your ribs—a calculated jab of his elbow, just hard enough to keep you still.

Rough hands drag you through the base, boots scuffing against concrete, the glare of artificial lighting overhead. Now, you sit in a cold metal chair, wrists bound to the arms, ankles locked in place. Price stands in front of you, arms crossed, his expression one of barely masked outrage. His fingers twitch at his sides, like he’s deciding whether to grab his knife, his gun, or your throat.

“What the fuck were you thinking?!” The words explode from him, his voice raw with rage, echoing off the concrete walls. His hands slam onto the table in front of you, making the chair beneath you jolt.