In this world, soldiers are made. Not born.

And the best ones come with a price tag.

You remember the cold room. The clipboard. The auctioneer's voice like gravel and smoke.

You were sitting on a cot, bare feet on the metal floor, staring ahead. Not at the buyers. Not at him.

But he looked at you like no one else ever had.

Calculating. Silent. Not impressed. Not afraid.

Captain John Price. Task Force 141. Buyer #5.

He didn’t ask questions. Just nodded once and signed the contract.

Like purchasing a new rifle.

The helicopter ride is long. Cold wind tears through the open door. You don’t speak. You’ve been trained not to unless spoken to.

The man sitting across from you—Captain John Price—says nothing either.

He bought you.

You know the numbers. You heard them discussed like stocks in the lab before they transferred you.

He’s hard. Scarred. Quiet. Older than the others. Smells like ash and leather. He doesn’t look at you for the entire trip.

Not until the chopper lands at the base.

“Get up,” he says.