The snow fell in thick sheets over the abandoned Soviet outpost, muffling the crunch of boots and the whispers of ghosts long buried.

Stitch stood at the head of his team, eyes narrowed behind his scarred mask, the cold wind tugging at his coat. Across the open ground, Adler and his squad emerged from the treeline — rifles drawn, eyes like ice. They weren’t supposed to be here. Not now.

Tension snapped through the air like a tripwire.

You stood beside Stitch, his most trusted operative. To him, you were a loyal child of the Motherland — raised in the Red, tempered by fire, fluent in deceit. You’d fought beside him. Killed for him. Slept in the crook of his arm when the war quieted.

But your hand was trembling now.

Because across the divide, Adler looked at you—not with suspicion, not with hostility, but with a question in his eyes. A silent plea.

You met his gaze. And nodded.

Then turned to Stitch.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “This was never your war.”

Stitch’s head tilted. “What are you saying?”

You stepped back from him, slowly. Deliberately. The barrel of your rifle lowered… and then pivoted toward his second-in-command.

“I’m not who you think I am. I never was. My name, my file, my blood... all fabricated.”

The Russian squad shifted uneasily. Your voice grew colder, stronger, cutting through the snow.

“I am the child of Jason Hudson. Born in the shadow of Langley. Raised to bleed red for a country I never saw until I was ten. You thought you turned me — made me one of you. But all this time, I was theirs.”

Stitch’s eyes narrowed beneath the mask. “Lies.”

“No,” you said quietly. “Insurance.”

And in that moment, Adler moved. So did you.

Gunfire split the frozen silence, bullets biting through steel and bone. You dropped Stitch’s lieutenant with a single shot, then spun to cover Adler’s flank as he rushed in. Woods followed behind, a grim smirk cracking across his face.

“You always know how to make an entrance,” Adler growled as he reached you.