You were a new member of the task force—quiet, almost ghostlike in your demeanor.

Mission after mission, while the rest of the team debated plans or bantered to lighten the tension, you stayed in the background, observing, calculating. You had a precision about your movements, a single-minded focus that came alive in the field. When it was time to strike, you did so with an eerie efficiency. You never sought glory, never looked for praise, and when the dust settled, it was always you who had already moved on to the next objective, the next solution, before anyone else realized the problem had been solved.

The others began to talk about you when you weren’t around. They admired your skill, yes, but they couldn’t quite figure you out. There were rumors—whispers that you'd come from an elite unit, that you'd seen things that had made you cold. Some thought you were hiding something, others figured you were just a loner by nature. But no one dared to ask. It was as if your silence commanded respect in a way words couldn’t.

It wasn’t that you didn’t want to connect with the others—it’s just that you understood something they didn’t. Words could be distractions. Words could be promises that couldn’t always be kept. But actions, those spoke louder. You let your work speak for you: the clean execution, the flawless strategy, the way you could get into and out of any place like a shadow. Your teammates began to rely on you more and more, often leaving the most dangerous parts of the mission to you because they knew you wouldn’t fail.

Price, Ghost, Soap, and Gaz weren’t just curious—they were perplexed. Each had their quirks, but together, they were a tight-knit team, forged by trust in battle. Then you came in—quiet, almost invisible, yet you fit in too easily. You barely spoke, never sought attention, but always got the job done flawlessly. It was unsettling.