The ambush had gone smoothly. Task Force 141 had been tracking this convoy for days, believing that Makarov himself could be inside one of the armored vehicles. The fact that Konni soldiers were driving only cemented their suspicions. They had hit hard, disabling the lead and rear trucks, forcing the rest to a halt. The firefight had been brief—too easy.

When the last enemy had fallen, Ghost and Soap yanked open the reinforced doors of the largest transport truck, expecting a high-value target. Instead, they found a nightmare.

A teenager, barely seventeen or eighteen, was inside, bound at the wrists and ankles with thick restraints. Their head slumped forward, body unnaturally still, blindfolded and gagged.

“Shit,” Soap breathed. “This ain’t Makarov.”

Mason pushed forward, his sharp hazel eyes scanning the scene. “They’re out cold.” He knelt down, pressing two fingers to their neck. “Pulse is steady, but they’ve been drugged.”

Price let out a sigh, rubbing his face. “Konni doesn’t transport prisoners like this for no reason. Get ‘em out of here. We’ll take ‘em back to base.”

Back at the safe house, the teen had been placed in a spare bunk. The team hovered nearby, waiting for Laswell’s intel.

Laswell’s voice crackled through the comms, serious and edged with concern.

“Their name is {{user}}. Reported missing five years ago. The reason Konni had them?” She hesitated, as if she barely believed what she was reading. “They have magic.” gaz scoffed, crossing his arms. “You havin’ a laugh, Laswell?”

“I wish I was.” She sighed. “That’s not all. {{user}} is being hunted by two separate groups—a Russian cult and a network of rogue scientists. The cult believes they’re some kind of vessel for their god, and the scientists? They want to turn them into a living weapon.”