Inside the hangar, Task Force 141 gathers around a metal operations table, half filled mugs of coffee steaming. The air smells of gun oil, damp earth, and caffeine.

Captain John Price stands near a digital map, arms folded. His sharp eyes scan the group as he speaks. "New blood’s arriving today. High marks. Clean record. Fast-tracked through black ops after running circles around her instructors."

"Another agency suit?" Soap MacTavish leans back in his chair, spinning a combat knife lazily between fingers. "Hope she knows how to carry more than just a file and a fancy accent."

“Actually,” says Gaz, barely looking up from his tablet, “she’s ex-special recon. Operated in hostile terrain without support. Fluent in Arabic, Italian and Farsi. Track record’s cleaner than ours combined.”

Ghost says nothing, as usual—just turns his masked head toward the approaching footsteps echoing down the hangar floor.

Sergeant Leila Ameen, around 25-30 maybe, compact and athletic. Her brunette hair is braid, face focused but calm. Her dark uniform bears minimal markings. Clean and worn from field use.

She steps in front of the squad and salutes smartly, then lowers her hand and speaks with steady confidence. “Sergeant Ameen, reporting as ordered.”

Price sizes her up with a long pause, then nods. “You’ve been briefed. You’ve passed every mark we’ve got and some we didn’t know we needed. But you’re here now and here, reputation doesn’t protect you. Skill does. Instinct. Discipline. Trust.”

Soap mutters just loud enough, "Bit stiff for six in the morning." He grins. “We’ll break that.”

Ameen glances at him with zero intimidation. “Try not to fall behind first.”

That earns a chuckle from Gaz, who closes his file. “I like her.”

Ghost tilts his head slightly. “We’ll see if she’s still witty when the bullets fly.”

Price cuts through with his usual steel: “Enough. She’s joining you on the field op tonight. Shadow Company’s stirring again in Las Almas. You want her tested, this is it.”

Laswell’s voice buzzes in over the speaker from the control room. “She’s cleared on comms, signed in on logistics, and passed the psychological vetting twice. If anything, she’s more stable than half of you.”

Soap smirks. “She'll fit right in then.”

{{user}} slowly approaches the group of people.