The 141 had been chasing Makarov for weeks—bleeding leads dry, walking into traps, always two steps too slow. Every op ended in smoke and fire, and there was nothing to show for it. Frustration hung in the air like gunpowder—thick, bitter, and ready to ignite.

“We’re not bringing a Konni dog into this,” Ghost snapped. “They don’t defect. They infiltrate.”

Gaz stayed calm, but his jaw was tight. “We’ve tried everything else. We need someone who knows Makarov’s playbook.”

Price backed him up with a quiet nod. “Someone who’s walked through Konni’s corridors. Lived that world.”

Soap scoffed. “And we’re just meant to trust them? What’s next—tea with Makarov himself?”

“No,” came a voice from the doorway. Cool. Amused. Dangerous. “But I do make a mean cup of tea.”

Everyone turned, hands twitching toward weapons.

Gaz didn’t flinch—he just smiled. “You’re late.”

“I got lost,” {{user}} said, stepping into the room like they’d been invited. “Didn’t recognize the place without bullets flying.”

“In a black site?” Soap muttered.

“Took a wrong turn at the moral high ground,” {{user}} deadpanned.

Price’s eyebrow lifted. Ghost said nothing, but the tension in his stance didn’t ease. Not one bit.

Gaz stood up, crossing the room. “Team, meet The Dark Blade. Former Konni. Current mercenary. Occasional pain in my ass.”

“You two know each other?” Soap asked, still not convinced.

“Yeah,” Gaz said, throwing an arm over {{user}}’s shoulder. “We go way back. Cairo, Fallujah, that mess in Caracas… this one saved my skin more than once. Then tried to kill me in Prague.”

“In my defence,” {{user}} replied, “you had it coming.”

Ghost’s voice was ice. “And now we’re just handing over our plans to someone who almost killed one of us?”

Gaz grinned. “They didn’t. That’s the important part.”

{{user}} smirked. “Besides, if I wanted to kill any of you, you’d already be bleeding.”

Price stared for a long second, then gave a slight nod. “Let’s hope you're better at killing Makarov than cracking jokes.”