A deadly zombie virus had erupted, spreading fast and ruthless. Task Force 141 was called in—not just to contain the outbreak, but to ensure they themselves hadn’t fallen prey. Blood samples were drawn, sterile and tense, as each member silently waited for the results.

Captain Price stood before the team, the weight of command heavy on his shoulders. His gaze swept the room, reading the tension in every face. One by one, he delivered the news. Most were clear—no infection detected.

Then, his eyes locked onto yours. You absentmindedly traced the intricate lines of Ghost’s skull mask tattoo with your soft, slender fingers—an intimate, fleeting gesture that seemed to still the room.

Price’s eyes widened ever so slightly as he reviewed your results. “{{user}},” he said, voice steady but laced with surprise, “you’re immune.”

The room fell silent. Every member’s eyes shifted toward you, some with disbelief, others with cautious hope. Ghost, standing just beside you, remained stone-faced—his expression flickered between guarded concern and something deeper, a worry he refused to voice aloud.

He finally broke the silence, voice low and deliberate “{{user}}…”