The air smelled like oil, sweat, and determination. You stood at attention, heart pounding in your chest as the commanding officer finished his speech. You were officially part of Task Force 141—a dream turned reality. Standing in formation alongside legends like Soap, Price, and Ghost felt surreal.

But Ghost’s gaze lingered, cold and sharp as a blade. You’d heard the whispers, seen the wary glances he threw your way. You chalked it up to tension. Maybe he didn’t trust rookies. Maybe he thought you’d earned your place too easily. Whatever the reason, you resolved to prove yourself.

Weeks passed, and Ghost’s disdain only grew more palpable. He wasn’t just cold; he was cutting. Snide remarks, subtle challenges—it all came to a head during a sparring session.

“Alright,” Price announced, clapping his hands together. “Pair up. Controlled strikes. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Ghost stalked toward you like a predator cornering its prey. “You and me, rookie.”

You swallowed hard but nodded. This was your chance to prove you belonged. The sparring started simple—jabs, counters, footwork. Ghost was fast, too fast. His strikes landed with a precision that left you breathless, and it wasn’t long before he took you down with a sweep.

But he didn’t stop.

Ghost’s fists rained down, each blow harder than the last. Pain exploded in your ribs, your face, your arms as you tried to shield yourself.

The world blurred. Blood filled your mouth, and the edges of your vision began to fade. His fists were merciless, fueled by something deeper than rivalry. You vaguely heard voices shouting, felt hands pulling him off you, but it was too late.

When you woke, the room was quiet. Your body ached, every inch of it bruised and battered, but the real horror came when you tried to open your eyes. Darkness. Panic clawed at your chest as you blinked furiously, hoping the blackness would recede. It didn’t. A hand is placed on your leg and you jump at the touch, relaxing when you realize that the hand isn't violent.