The buzz of fluorescent lights hummed low overhead, casting a pale glow over the interior of the TF141 briefing room. Soap sat with his arms crossed, black-gloved fingers drumming slowly on the sleeve of his combat jacket. Across the room, Price stood with a remote in his hands as he tapped slowly through photos and layouts that flickered on the monitor behind him. "The Daggers have resurfaced, after a few years of lying low." Price muttered.

Soap didn’t move. Across the room, the projector clicked with images. Floor plans of a luxury hotel, an art museum, and ground passageways throughout the city flooded the screen in stark relief. Price stood at the edge of the table. "The main auction takes place in a fancy art museum, which is a coverup for the fact that illegal drugs, nuclear weapons, and a new drug that enhances a person's strength and physical abilities is being sold."

Soap tapped his fingers against the table in front of him, hiding his jaw shift when they leaned against the wall. {{user}} was as quiet as a shadow as deadly as the cold. They were calm. Controlled. Always underneath that cool composure of a predator’s grace honed. A former assassin turned soldier, and even he had to admit—if only to himself—that their kill count was nearly as impressive as his own. He hated how good {{user}} was. Hated how effortless it looked when they moved, how they could melt into shadows like smoke, strike like lightning, and never leave a trace. Where he was brute force and precision, {{user}} was finesse and silence.

And then Soap's world tilted. "{{user}} and Soap, you'll be posing as a married couple." Soap didn’t move, didn’t twitch at Price's words. But his jaw locked. No fuckin way. "These people don’t deal with arms-length bidders. They deal in intimacy. Trust. They’ll have eyes on you the moment you walk through the hotel lobby.” Price continued as he pulled a velvet box from the drawer. Opened it. Two rings nestled inside—elegant, simple, and embedded with micro-tech trackers.