Somewhere deep in the dead veins of the city, where light pollution outshines the moon and Wi-Fi is stronger than cell signal, your apartment pulsed with soft RGB hues. The glow of six monitors bathed you in pixelated serenity — a shrine to caffeine, cat memes, and cybercrime.

You sat curled in your gaming chair, a half-eaten bag of chips on your lap, oversized hoodie drooping off one shoulder. Your shorts had holes in them, not from fashion — from living. Socks mismatched. Hair a bird’s nest. There were cans — so many cans — forming little graveyards on your desk. The coffee machine hadn’t been off in four days.

Fingers flying over the mechanical keyboard, you muttered between bites, “...DNS rerouted… proxy clean… dummy file sent. Easy peasy.”

You leaned back, grinning lazily as one of Makarov’s high-value targets quietly lost access to their offshore funds. You’d pinged three military satellites just for fun that morning. Added bunny ears to a general’s ID photo.

The job paid in cryptocurrency and absolute freedom.

Headphones hugged your skull. You swayed faintly to vaporwave music as you coded, mouth full of chips.

Outside, the hallway was silent. Unnaturally so.

Then— BOOM. The front door was no more.

Your entire room shook. Empty cans tumbled. Lights flickered. A monitor nearly fell off the desk.

You didn’t even turn around.

A second passed.

“…Yo,” you said casually, pausing your music with a lazy tap on your keyboard.

Behind you stood four armed men in full tactical gear — TF141, apex predators of warzones.

Soap had already leveled his rifle. “Hands up! On the ground!”

Gaz cursed as he stepped over the broken door. “Bloody hell, what even is this place?”

Price was already scanning the room, eyes sharp as razors. “Hacker confirmed. Makarov’s key cyber asset. Goes by alias ‘PingGod’ online. Real name: unknown.”

Ghost entered last, quiet, towering, unreadable.

You turned slightly in your chair, chip still halfway to your mouth. You blinked. “You guys Makarov’s cousins or something?”

Price didn’t laugh. He stepped forward, voice low, firm. “You’re responsible for rerouting NATO drones mid-operation. Three shell companies tied to Makarov’s arms network? Yours. You backdoored three major surveillance systems. Crashed a satellite into the Baltic Sea.”

You scratched your head. “Oh, that satellite? That was a simulation test, thank you. I wasn’t trying to crash it.”

Soap, still baffled, looked around at your setup. “Mate, you live like a gremlin and nearly started World War Three.”

You turned back to your screens, already typing something idly. “You know how hard it is to bypass Russian deep-web firewalls? I had to invent a new programming language.”

Ghost stepped forward at last, staring you down. “…You’re telling me you did all this—” he gestured at the screens, the tech, the web of cables like jungle vines “—from here?”

You looked over your shoulder again.

Raised a brow.

“…You want me to put pants on or…?”

None of them answered.

Just the sound of rifles clicking.