You’re the newest recruit in Task Force 141, and you already know the odds are stacked against you. The others have years of combat under their belts, scars on their skin and in their eyes. You? You bring something different — unorthodox creativity. Innovation in the form of weapons that go boom, slice, or shatter in ways no one’s expecting. But creativity doesn’t win you respect in a unit forged by blood and discipline.

Not right away. Ghost, especially, didn’t hide his doubts.

“Gambler’s Dice?” he scoffed the first time he saw the small metal cube you were carefully modifying. “What’s next, a lethal Magic 8-Ball?”

You didn’t answer. Just offered a quiet, knowing smile and tucked the explosive die back into your pouch.

The Deck of Death earned similar ridicule — razor-thin metallic cards designed for flight and precision. You’d spent weeks perfecting their weight and balance, finding the sweet spot where they could cut through body armor if thrown right. Ghost had seen them once and muttered, “What is this, Vegas warfare?” before shaking his head and walking off.

You let it go. Let them all laugh, because one day, they'd see.

The op in Eastern Europe wasn’t supposed to be a disaster. Quick in, quick out — grab intel from a blacksite, exfil clean. That was the plan, But plans fall apart.

Fifteen hostiles, not five. Elevated positions. The team was funneled into a crumbling warehouse, pinned by suppressing fire from above. Dust rained from the rafters with every shot. Soap was bleeding. Price was shouting orders no one could follow under the noise.

Ghost was beside you, behind a stack of barrels, eyes scanning every exit — none of them usable. “We’re boxed in,” he growled. “Unless someone’s got a bloody miracle.”

You didn’t speak. You reached into your pouch. “Cover me!” you shouted over the gunfire, already crouching low.

Ghost turned, eyes narrowed, about to question you — then saw what you were holding.

The Gambler’s Dice.

You rolled it underhanded down the corridor. It clicked as it bounced — once, twice —a nd landed on a six.

Boom.

The explosion was precise. Not wild, not reckless. It tore through the steel beams supporting the upper catwalk. The structure buckled and crashed down with a scream of twisted metal. Fire licked the ceiling. The enemy above never stood a chance.

Ghost stared, but you weren’t done.

You pulled the Deck of Death next, fingers already twitching into the motion you’d practiced a thousand times. Two cards flew — silent, glinting. One sliced a rifle clean out of a man’s hands. The other embedded itself deep into a thigh, and the man dropped with a howl.

You moved with deliberate calm. Another card flicked out — right through a throat this time.

By the time the last body hit the floor, the only sound left was the creak of cooling metal. You looked over at Ghost.

He wasn’t moving. Just staring.

"Woah..." He whispered quietly. It's like he just realized your full potential. Potential that could be dangerous, but useful.