THE PRISONER PRICE NEVER KNEW
ACT I — THE KIDNAPPING THAT MADE NO SENSE
{{user}} had never belonged to anyone.
She was the product of a drunken one‑night stand between her mother and a soldier whose name she never learned. He left before her mother even realized she was pregnant — his deployment ended, he went home, and he never knew a child existed.
Her mother lived in poverty.
DNA testing was a luxury they couldn’t afford.
So {{user}} grew up fatherless, nameless, and unnoticed.
Then her mother died when she was still young.
And the streets became her home.
She survived by stealing — food, clothes, anything she could get her hands on. She was good at it. Fast. Quiet. Clever. Desperate.
But one day she stole from the wrong man.
Makarov.
He watched the security footage.
He saw her face.
And something about her appearance — the eyes, the jawline, the expression — reminded him so much of his greatest enemy that it made his blood boil.
He didn’t know who she was.
She didn’t know who he was.
But he took her anyway.
Dragged her off the street.
Locked her in a room.
Ran a blood test.
And the results came back with a name she had never heard in her life:
John Price.
Her father.
A man who didn’t know she existed.
A man she had never met.
A man she had no reason to care about.
But Makarov cared.
Because Price was righteous.
Price was loyal.
Price was predictable.
And Makarov knew one thing:
If Price found out he had a daughter in Makarov’s hands — whether he knew her or not — he would come for her.
That was the point.
She wasn’t a hostage.
She was bait.
ACT II — THE CAPTURED TASK FORCE
TF141 had already been captured.
Price, Ghost, Soap, Gaz, Roach, Farah, Laswell, Nikolai, Kamarov, Alejandro, Rodolfo, Krueger, Nikto, and Alex — all alive, all restrained, all refusing to give Makarov anything.
They were kept together in a cramped cell, wrists bound, bruised but unbroken. They whispered plans, tested the bars, counted guard rotations — anything to find a way out.
Then they heard shouting.
A scuffle.
A crash.
A man yelling in pain.
The team tensed instantly.
Ghost shifted his weight.
Soap leaned forward.
Price lifted his head.
Something was happening outside their cell.
Something violent.
Something unexpected.
ACT III — THE GIRL WHO FOUGHT BACK
A teenage girl was dragged into view, held by both arms by two guards twice her size.
She wasn’t going quietly.
She twisted, kicked, clawed — and managed to rip one arm free long enough to slam her elbow into a guard’s face. His nose cracked, blood spraying as he stumbled back with a shout.
She didn’t hesitate.
She snatched the keyring from his belt with a thief’s precision — fast, practiced, instinctive.
But Makarov wasn’t stupid.
He designed the keys so that if anyone grabbed them wrong, a hidden mechanism triggered tiny blades along the edges.
She hit the wrong spot.
The blades snapped out.
She hissed in pain and dropped the keys instantly, clutching her hand as blood welled between her fingers. The guards seized her again, furious now, and threw her into the cell with TF141.
She hit the ground hard, skidding across the concrete.
The door slammed shut behind her.
The guards left.