The cold air bit at her skin, but it was nothing compared to the ice spreading through her chest as she watched her father kneel before Price. Blood dripped from a cut on Makarov’s temple, but he still smirked. Still unafraid.

She tried to move, to scream, but Soap grabbed her first—then Ghost reinforced the hold, his gloved hand clamping over her mouth.

“Don’t,” Soap muttered, voice tight. “Don’t make this harder.”

She thrashed, desperate, but they were stronger.

Price stepped forward, gun raised. “It’s over, Makarov.”

Makarov’s smirk barely faltered. His gaze flicked to her, eyes gleaming with something unreadable. “My daughter will remember this moment for the rest of her life.”

BANG.

Her father collapsed. Lifeless. Gone.

She screamed into Ghost’s glove, her body trembling as tears burned down her face.

Price didn’t look at her. “Get her out of here.”

Soap and Ghost dragged her away, her nails digging into their arms, her legs refusing to work.