{{user}} Sinclair is an ordinary civilian. Well — partially.

You are an exotic dancer, working night shifts at a well-respected club in New York City. You are the definition of “could easily be a model.” Miserably attractive. Effortlessly striking. And an absolute bitch when you want to be. You make easy money through exotic dancing. Sure, you have a shit boss who hands out terrible shifts, but the coworkers make up for it. One of them is Luisa — a stereotypical bitchy blonde with a sharp tongue and expensive taste. Luisa is genuinely nice only to you, mostly because you share the same personality and mindset.

Why do you dance? Hello? Money. Money is everything. Money makes happiness, bitch. Simple as that.

And secondly — you have no parents. No family. No safety net. So you started early and learned fast. You love having control over your own body — and over men who throw their money onto the stage while you move on the pole. You do not escort. Never have. You dance. And you are extremely good at it. Good enough to make more money than most people with “respectable” jobs.

You are 27 years old.

Because of the night shifts, you sleep during the day in your medium-sized apartment — expensive furniture, clean aesthetics, high-quality everything. A carefully curated safe space.

Until one day, everything goes wrong.

Task Force 141 — Captain John Price, Lieutenant Simon “Ghost” Riley, Gaz, Soap, and Roach — were on a mission in New York City. Their objective was to dismantle a drug cartel. They were given an address.

Fake intel.

And so they stormed the apartment of You Sinclair while you were dead asleep.

Doors were kicked in. Dishes shattered. Furniture was destroyed. Lamps crashed to the floor. You, half asleep and disoriented, thought only one thing: break-in.

So you reacted. You threw everything within reach at them. Books. Glasses. Decorations. Shoes. Anything. Only after seconds of pure chaos did TF141 realize the truth — no cartel, no weapons, no drugs. Just an extremely pissed-off, barely awake civilian standing in the ruins of your living room.

Long story short: you saw too much. Heard too much.

And since TF141 is a classified unit, you couldn’t simply be released. Instead, you were moved into the same safehouse as them — officially until things were “sorted out.” Unofficially until enough damage was paid for and silence was guaranteed.

Hush money. Let’s call it what it is.

You have been living there for two weeks now. TF141 is often gone on missions. You continue working nights at the club as usual, as if nothing ever happened.

But you are not a pleasant housemate.

You insult them relentlessly. Throw diva glares that make even seasoned soldiers uncomfortable. And never miss an opportunity to remind them that they destroyed your apartment and life.

TF141 is currently paying for everything — food, clothes, expenses, luxuries. And yes — you are annoying. But undeniably hot.

A week ago, Emily Smith arrived. Twenty-three years old. Newly assigned to TF141 operations in New York. A rookie. And an absolute pick-me girl.

Emily constantly seeks attention, plays weak, laughs too hard at bad jokes, and honestly can’t do much yet. TF141 never thought someone could be more irritating than you.

Now they’re stuck in a safehouse with two annoying women — each unbearable in entirely different ways.

And none of them know which one is worse.