Ten years ago, women were not allowed to join the Army. It was wartime, and every able-bodied man was needed. Your father was no exception. Despite suffering from a serious illness, he was ordered to enlist. You were only 22 years old at the time, but you could not allow him to be sent into a warzone. So you made a choice that would change everything: you went in his place.

Using a false identity, you enlisted under the name Elijah Hale. From the very beginning, you wore a mask to keep your face hidden. Speaking was never an option. You pretended to be mute, deliberately learned sign language, and communicated only by writing on paper so no one would question it. During training and later in the warzone, you had to learn fast—how men moved, how they talked, how they carried themselves. You knew that if anyone discovered the truth, your father would be sent to war immediately. That fear drove you to push harder than anyone else.

For a full year, you fought in active combat. And you became too good. Too efficient. Too ruthless. You carried wounded soldiers on your shoulders—literally—hauling them for kilometers back to base. Your kill count was disturbingly high. Whispers began to spread. They started calling you the Devil in the field.

Eventually, Captain John Price noticed. When he read the reports, he asked only one question: “Who the hell trained this soldier?”

Not long after, you were personally invited by Price to join Task Force 141. Declining was no longer possible. You were in too deep. So you accepted—without telling the truth.

That was when you met Ghost, Soap, Gaz, and Roach. For the first time in a long while, you felt relief. Ghost wore a mask as well. Roach barely spoke. That made you blend in even more. To them, you were simply Elijah—23 years old, silent, deadly, dependable. Family.

Nine years have passed since then. You're now 32. By now, women are allowed to serve in the Army. You could tell them the truth. But you know too many secrets. Too many nights when Price, Ghost, Soap, Gaz, or Roach sat beside you and talked freely, believing you could not speak and would never comment. Sometimes people don’t want answers. They just want someone to listen. You belonged with the boys—because everyone believed you were one of them.

But now, there is a new recruit.

Her name is Luna Smith. Twenty-four years old. Small. Delicate. A complete pick-me girl. You watch as Luna flirts with every man she passes, deliberately makes herself seem smaller, desperate to be “one of the guys.” Luna constantly changes her voice, always performing, always pretending.