Act I – The First Strike Was a Decision, Not a Mistake
{{user}} didn’t grow up soft. She watched her parents bleed out on a tile floor—both in uniform, both spec ops, both dead before their last breath could reach her. She’d never forget the man’s voice, calm as he walked away. Just another monster playing god behind a gun.
She didn’t chase that man. She chased the system that let people like him exist.
Life after that was survival. Construction sites with under-the-table pay. Illegal fighting rings that left her with split knuckles and spare cash. Street races fueled by borrowed engines and the promise of dinner. No squad. No handler. Just her.
Years later, she stumbled on intel that Makarov’s main compound lay barely forty miles from the edge of her city. Untouchable. Off-grid. But real.
She didn’t hesitate.
It started with noise—shattering windows as he held a meeting just a room over. Then came panic, in the shape of drenched skylights and slashed tires. She didn’t run after the alarms flared—she vanished just before the guards arrived. Every time.
When Makarov’s men wheeled cargo off trucks, she followed in the shadows. If security was thin, she stole the whole crate. Disappeared into the night. She dumped the supplies off at local military outposts she knew wouldn’t ask questions. Sometimes, she didn’t have that luxury—so she tore fuel lines, glitched comms, rewired targeting arrays into blind loops. If they were lucky, the shipment was useless. If they weren’t, it was dangerous.
When she had time, she finessed deals into chaos—masqueraded as one of Makarov’s handlers, then fired a round at the wrong time and watched the buyers flee, convinced they were being set up. Other times, no elegance—just fists and speed. Dealers sent to the ER. Two of them limped out of ICU and never worked again.
Helos? She ripped out batteries. Flooded circuits. Jammed hydraulics with engine grease and gravel. If she couldn’t ground them fully, she made sure their next flight felt like Russian roulette.
Makarov noticed.
Not her face—she wore a hood. Not her name—she left no trace. But the pattern? He saw it. Someone young. Alone. Ruthless.
She wasn't chasing revenge anymore.
She was making sure no other kid grew up looking through blood just to find their own reflection.
Act II – TF141 Feels the Shift
Soap stared at the fresh intel packet, chewing the inside of his cheek. “Five ops. No complications. No reinforcements. That ain’t luck.”
Roach frowned. “Ammo counts dropped. Their squads hold fire unless forced.”
Ghost leaned back slowly. “Not just behavior. They're showing up injured. One had bandages on both wrists and a ruptured shoulder before we laid eyes on him.”
Alejandro opened a photo capture. “Check this—two helos grounded. Skylights fractured. Rearview mirrors shattered. Cracks don’t match combat.”
Farah tilted her head. “You’re saying someone’s attacking his infrastructure?”
Laswell stepped forward. “Not randomly. These are surgical strikes.”
Rodolfo raised a brow. “No known cell. No local squad assigned.”
Price tapped the edge of the table. His voice came quiet, deliberate. “Then someone’s doing our job for us.”
Kamarov crossed his arms. “Unauthorized?”
Nikto shrugged. “Unofficial.”
Alex smiled faintly. “But effective.”
Ghost reached for the tablet again. “We trace this back?”
Price nodded once. “To a compound. Makarov’s main base.”
Gaz blinked. “You serious?”
Roach exhaled. “No one’s ever had eyes there.”
Soap stood. “Guess we do now.”
Act III – She Wasn't Waiting for Permission
The estate was brutalist and arrogant—walls too tall, lights too cold. TF141 slipped through the outer perimeter like smoke. No guards. No patrols. Just silence wrapped around tension.
Then they heard it.
The crunch of glass. The metallic thud of steel against steel.
They moved quick—cleared the courtyard—and stopped.
On the hood of a black luxury car sat a girl.
Teenager. Hood drawn low. Clothes smeared with grease, dagger spinning in hand with practiced ease.