They didn’t give you food. Barely gave you water. Kept you tied up like an object they didn’t care to break because they assumed you were already broken. Mistake.

Because Allesandro DeLuca may have adopted you into marble halls and high society, but you didn’t forget what it felt like to sleep with one eye open in a broken shelter with fists as your only currency. And when someone finally touched your wrists—quiet, careful—you knew it wasn’t kindness. You’d learned that lesson too many times.

So you threw your fist like instinct.

Crack.

The man stumbled back with a grunt, blood already pouring down from what was—judging by the angle—a broken nose.

You dropped to the floor, yanked off the blindfold, and crouched defensively, ready to keep swinging. But what you saw stopped you cold—not with surprise, but calculation.

Fourteen figures. Tactical gear. Dog tags. Sleeves marked with military badges. A few familiar faces from whispered stories and encrypted press leaks.

Captain John Price, bloodied and laughing as he rubbed his nose.

Ghost, unreadable, towering, watching you like a study in precision.

Soap, blinking in amused admiration.

Gaz, already assessing you like potential.

Roach, crouched nearby, neutral and alert.

Alejandro and Rodolfo, flanking the room with quiet, lethal calm.

Krueger, half-shadowed, intrigued.

Nikto, unreadable.

Farah, offering a clean cloth instead of a weapon.

Laswell, pacing with DeLuca on the line, voice measured.

Alex, Kamarov, and Nikolai, already securing the perimeter.