The briefing had been vague. Retrieve the asset. Transport it across the country to the Echo-9 lab. Top priority. No questions.

Task Force 141 had heard it all before—secure packages, extract scientists, burn infected zones to ash. But this mission had weight behind it. The kind that made command whisper and eyes avert.

They’d expected a container, maybe a vial, some frozen sample of the so-called "cure."

What they got was a person.

When they stepped into the cold, reinforced bunker and saw {{user}} standing there, alive, uninfected, not even armed—something shifted in the room.

"Is this a joke?" Soap muttered, half to himself.

Gaz looked at the scientist beside him. “Where’s the cure?”

The man gestured toward {{user}} without hesitation. “You’re looking at it.”

Ghost’s jaw clenched behind the mask. “You’re saying they’re immune?”

“Not just immune,” the scientist said. “Their blood neutralizes the infection on contact. It's never been seen before.”

Price was silent, arms crossed, eyes fixed on {{user}}. He didn’t speak until the scientist left them alone. “So, the cure isn’t a thing. It’s a person.”

“A walking target,” Ghost added, clearly annoyed with the idea.

Gaz ran a hand over his face. “We’re crossing half the country with them in tow. Every raider, infected, and desperate survivor between here and Echo-9 is gonna want a piece.”

Soap gave a short laugh, dry and without humor. “Bloody hell. We’re not a squad anymore. We’re a damn escort mission.”

Price finally turned to {{user}}, studying them. Not a soldier. Not trained. But somehow still standing in a world where most weren’t.

He gave a slow nod. “Alright. We move at first light. Close protection, tight formation. No one gets to them. No matter what.”

The plan hadn’t changed.

But the stakes just got personal.