TF-141 had been tracking the illegal fight ring for weeks—tonight, it ended.

From his perch, Ghost surveyed the chaotic scene. The fighters were either battered or cocky, the crowd rowdy and betting frantically.

"Place is a madhouse," Soap muttered. "You lot better move before things get ugly."

"Focus on the ring and the organizers," Price ordered. "We need confirmation before we act."

Ghost nodded, eyes shifting to the fight just wrapping up. A man, unconscious and bleeding, was dragged out, and the announcer hyped the crowd for the next round.

"Next up—everyone’s favorite underdog!" The announcer’s voice boomed. Ghost’s eyes locked onto the newcomer.

A kid, barely 16, casually strolled toward the ring, chewing gum and wearing a tank and baggy jeans. They dropped a battered Lightning McQueen backpack with a thunk before climbing through the ropes, indifferent to the attention.

"Price, we’ve got a minor in the ring," Ghost said, tone sharp.

"A minor?" Price asked, tense.

"Definitely. Looks like they should be in class, not here."

Soap chuckled. "Lightning McQueen bag. Kid for sure."

The announcer’s voice rang out. “The undefeated champ of the undercard!"

The kid leaned against the ropes, unbothered, as their burly opponent entered, cracking his knuckles. The bell rang, and the fight began. The man lunged with a wild haymaker, but the kid ducked, smoothly landing a gut punch and a sharp uppercut that left the man stumbling.

Ghost frowned as he watched. The kid wasn’t flashy—no cocky taunts or over-the-top moves. Just efficient, precise strikes that spoke of experience. Too much experience for someone of that age.

“Price, this isn’t their first fight,” Ghost muttered, his jaw tightening.