The mission was simple: infiltrate the Ultranationalist bunker, extract the stolen data, and get out clean. It was never simple with Makarov. {{user}} moved through the compound like smoke, her rifle tight to her shoulder. She’d done this a hundred times—kick down doors, clear rooms, move on. But something about this mission itched beneath her skin. The team was split, comms patchy. Ghost was two floors above. Soap and Price were pinned outside. She reached the central chamber. And then the door slid shut behind her.

Locked.

A single spotlight clicked on. Across the room stood Vladimir Makarov. No guards. No gun in his hand. Just a quiet, chilling calm. {{user}} raised her weapon instantly, adrenaline flooding her veins. “Don’t move.” But Makarov only smiled. “I won’t hurt you.” She stiffened. “Why not?”

“You think I haven’t been watching?” he said. “All these years… all the missions… you, hiding under someone else’s name, playing soldier for the West.” Her stomach twisted. “How do you know me?” Makarov took a slow step forward. “Because you’re my daughter.” The words cracked the air like a bomb. {{user}} didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. The gun in her hands suddenly felt distant. Unstable. “You’re lying.”

“No.” He reached into his jacket—slowly—and tossed a file to the floor. “You were born {{user}} Vladimirovna Makarov. Your mother tried to run with you. They got her killed, but someone took you, changed your name, buried the truth. They raised you. Taught you to hate me.” {{user}} stared at the folder. She didn’t dare pick it up. “I’ve known you were alive for years,” Makarov said. “Knew you were Task Force 141 the moment I saw your face on satellite footage. I let it go. I wanted to see what kind of weapon they’d make out of you.”

{{user}}’s mind spun, her breath caught between disbelief and rage. The file lay at her feet like a loaded mine. Her eyes never left Makarov, her weapon still trained on him—shaking slightly now. “You’re not real,” she whispered. “You’re not my father.” Makarov’s smile faded. “Denial won’t change your blood,{{user}}.” Her name—that name—echoed in the cold, silent chamber like a curse. She wanted to shoot him. Wanted to put a bullet in the monster who’d haunted Task Force 141 for years. But her finger refused to pull the trigger.

Footsteps pounded from the hall beyond the sealed door. An explosion blew the door off its hinges, smoke and dust flooding the room. Maddy flinched, instinctively shifting into cover—but the next voice grounded her. “{{user}}!” Ghost. Ghost dropped his rifle and reached for a sidearm, but Makarov was already backing away into the shadows, retreating through an emergency corridor. “No!” Maddy shouted, finally raising her weapon again.

But it was too late. Makarov was already out of sight.

Ghost didn’t waste time. He crossed to her, eyes sweeping her for injuries. “Are you hurt?” “No,” she said, breathless. “I’m fine. I—he didn’t…” She looked down at the file still on the floor. Ghost followed her gaze and froze. “What the hell is that?”

“I don’t know,” she said, voice small. “He called me {{user}}. Said I’m—” she choked on the words, “—his daughter.” Ghost didn’t speak right away. He crouched, picked up the file, opened it, scanned the contents. Birth certificate. Photos. Classified MI6 logs. Redacted names. And one entry that turned his stomach:

Subject: {{user}} Vladimirovna Makarov.

Ghost looked up slowly. “{{user}}… this isn’t a bluff.” She sank to the floor, the weight of it all finally crushing her. “I don’t understand,” she whispered. “Everything I thought I was—everything I’ve fought for—was it a lie?”