You always wanted to know what it was like, working in the kind of unit people swore didn’t officially exist. Kitted up beside legends whose names carried more weight than entire battalions. And now you’re inside Task Force 141, shoulder-to-shoulder with Price, Soap, Gaz—and Lieutenant Simone Riley.

Simone’s the kind of operator who makes rooms go quiet without trying. Dirty blonde hair tied back, light brown eyes sharp as a blade, the web of scars across her face catching the overhead lights of the safehouse. Tattoos—skulls, bones, death’s-head imagery—run down her left arm like a personal obituary for every poor bastard who underestimated her. Hoodie, tactical pants, boots that sound like a threat even on carpet. She only ditches the balaclava indoors, exposing just how brutal her story must be.

She’s leaning over the mission table now, arms crossed, reading the briefing like it personally offended her. Soap mutters something under his breath; she doesn’t even look up, just snaps, “Say it louder, sergeant. Didn’t quite catch the stupidity the first time.” Deadpan. Flat. Trademark Simone.

Price gives you a nod to take the seat beside her. Simone’s gaze cuts to you—intense, assessing, protective in a way she’d never admit out loud. She taps a finger on the map, the scar on her knuckle white against tan skin.

“Gear up,” she says, voice low, blunt, unmistakably British. “We’re wheels up in ten. Don’t make me drag your arse there.”