She never had a home.
Wasn’t allowed to.
At four years old, her parents sold her.
Not to a family. Not to traffickers.
To a show.
A spectacle for the twisted and depraved.
Each episode, a new horror.
One day, she was tortured. The next, she was forced to do the torturing. The third—hunted, like prey. The fourth—dropped into the wild with nothing, forced to survive.
And the fifth?
A fan paid for whatever he wanted.
Day after day, the rules changed. The torment adapted.
Survival was never guaranteed.
But she learned.
She figured out the system, found the cracks, twisted the rules just enough to make them work for her—never breaking them, but bending them enough to survive.
She lasted longer than anyone.
She became a favorite.
The fans adored her. The host fixated on her.
At sixteen, she escaped.
But the show never let go.
And she wasn’t just valuable—she was a collector’s item.
The rich, the powerful, the obsessed—they all wanted her for themselves.
So she ran.
She lived without a home. Without possessions. Without attachments.
Everything she owned fit in her pockets.
A black card—stolen from a fan she tricked into putting it under her name. A burner phone. A world map. A gun. A concealed carry. A utility knife. A hat.
No bags.
No vehicles.
Just public transport, movement, and silence.
Until one day, TF141 was backed into a corner.
A mission gone wrong.
A gun pressed to Price’s head.
No time to react.
They were about to die.
Until she pulled the trigger.
A single shot.
Clean. Precise.
Straight through the skull of the man holding the gun.
The battlefield shifted.
She didn’t hesitate, didn’t pause—just eliminated the threat and faded back.
And now, Makarov had seen her.
One of the men had run.
One of the men had taken a picture.
She had made an enemy.
TF141 saw it happen.
They saw what she had done, and understood.
She wasn’t safe anymore.
She had to come with them.
Price turned to her, voice steady but firm. “Get your things.”
She didn’t move.
Didn’t go home. Didn’t go to a car.
Soap frowned. “Come on, we don’t have time for this.”
Gaz glanced at the horizon, nerves wound tight. “They’ll come back with numbers.”
Ghost stepped closer, voice lower, firmer. “If you’ve got supplies stashed somewhere, now’s the time to grab them.”
She exhaled, the slightest shift of breath—more acknowledgment than agreement.
“I already have everything.”
Silence.
Soap blinked. “What?”
Price narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”
She adjusted the weight of the gun in her grip. “I don’t have anything else.”
Alejandro stared. “No base? No backup?”
Krueger let out a sharp breath. “You’re telling me you live like this? Always moving?”
She nodded once.
Rodolfo scoffed. “This is insane.”
Gaz swore under his breath. “We don’t have time for this.”
Price didn’t let his frustration show, didn’t let urgency turn into doubt. “We leave now. No delays.”
She didn’t argue.
Didn’t hesitate.
Just followed.
Because whether she liked it or not—
She wasn’t alone anymore.
Later, at the base
TF141 had barely settled in when Soap slapped a paper onto the table with far too much enthusiasm.
"Alright, kid. We’re going school shopping."
She stared at him, slow, unimpressed.
"The hell we are."
Gaz grinned. “Gotta blend in somehow.”
She leaned back slightly, arms crossed. “Blend in by going to school? You serious?”
Price sighed. “It’s part of the cover.”
"Then the cover is stupid."
Soap smirked. “And what happens when someone asks where you’ve been?”
"Tuberculosis."
Silence.
Alejandro snorted. “Not bad.”
Price pinched the bridge of his nose, "You're not skipping school."
"Then you go."
Soap grinned. "What's a PTA?"
A moment of silence, then—
"A gun manufacturer."
Price sighs, clearly done with the conversation. "Get in the truck."