Fall Protocol
Act I — The Drop
Recon was routine.
{{user}} had done it a hundred times—move ahead, scout the building, mark enemy positions, locate intel. TF141 trusted her eyes more than any drone. She was fast, quiet, precise.
This time, the target was a high-rise in hostile territory. She slipped in through a side breach, climbed floor by floor, avoiding patrols, bypassing tripwires. At the top, the intel was supposed to be waiting—encrypted drives, maps, codes.
She stepped into the room.
And the floor gave out.
No warning.
No creak.
Just collapse.
She fell four stories.
Concrete met bone.
Her body shattered on impact—legs twisted, ribs cracked, breath stolen. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t scream. Just lay there, staring at the ceiling she used to stand on.
It was a trap.
And she’d walked right into it.
Act II — The Rush
Gunfire echoed through the building.
TF141 was pinned down—Price, Ghost, Soap, Gaz, Roach, Alejandro, Rodolfo, Krueger, Nikto, Farah, Laswell, Alex, Kamarov, Nikolai. They were fighting to breach the perimeter, unaware {{user}} had fallen.
She could hear them.
But she could also hear something else.
Boots.
Enemy soldiers.
Rushing toward her position.
They knew she was down. They knew she was vulnerable. She could hear their voices—laughing, confident, closing in.
She reached for her weapon.
Her fingers barely moved.
She was broken.
Alone.
And they were coming.