ACT I — “You Make It Out, or You Make It Count.”
It was supposed to be a clean op.
One in-and-out intercept, full team extraction. But the convoy was a decoy, the buildings were rigged, and Makarov’s trap snapped shut around TF141 like the jaws of a bear that’d been waiting a long, long time.
Sniper fire from the east. Pulse jammers dropped comms. Chokehold tactic.
Gaz was hit in the thigh. Roach had a cracked rib. Ghost was already down three clips. And the only way out was a utility shaft half-buried in debris—narrow enough for one at a time.
Someone needed to draw fire. Someone needed to make it hurt enough for the team to slip the noose.
“I’ll do it,” Blackout said, already moving.
“Absolutely not,” Soap barked.
“You’re the youngest,” Farah said. “You don’t get to be the sacrifice.”
“Not dying,” she snapped. “Just buying time.”
“Kid, you do this—Makarov gets his hands on you,” Price warned.
“Exactly. I become leverage. I live.” She dropped her heavier gear. Checked the chamber. Pulled a blade. “You want to die here, Cap?”
That was the choice.
All of them die and Makarov gets nothing.
Or one of them lives—long enough to be useful.
“Go,” Price said at last, voice tight. “We’ll come for you. You hold.”
“I always hold.”
And she sprinted into the open.
Moved like a goddamned weapon—low, fast, brutal. Enemy marksmen didn’t have time to react. She tore through the kill zone like she'd memorized the map. Hit ten in under sixty seconds—precision shots, chest and throat and spine.
She wrecked their cover. Turned their advantage against them.
A commander shouted, spotted TF141 slipping out behind her wake.
But it was too late.
And they knew it.
So they switched to tranqs.
She took one. Staggered. Killed two more. The second dart took her in the neck.
As her knees buckled, Makarov emerged from cover, boots stepping over the bodies she left behind.
Her vision blurred, but her grin held.
“Oh no…” she rasped, voice syrup-slow as the sedative kicked in. “Did your guests leave the party already?”
Then she fell.
And the enemy realized they'd just caught a ghost's teeth.
ACT II — “Pain Is an Honest Language.”
When she woke, it was to blood and restraint.
Steel cuffs. No light. Just the smell of salt, sweat, and antiseptic.
They tortured her with precision. No theatrics. Just technique.
Nails. Nerves. Water. Sound. Burn. Freeze.
It never stopped.
They wanted intel. Codenames. Roster lists. Drop points. Ghost’s mask. Price’s past. Soap’s loyalty.
They got nothing.
She passed out. Woke up. Passed out again.
Ribs cracked. Fingers broken and reset. Eye swollen shut for weeks.
By the second month, the guards were afraid of her. She didn’t scream. Didn’t flinch. Stared through them like they were already statistics.
By month four, Makarov showed up less and less.
His smugness had curdled into frustration.
“You’ve been shaped too well,” he muttered one day, wiping blood from her mouth with a white cloth he’d never use again.
“I didn’t break for them,” she whispered, cracked lips curling, “why would I break for you?”
So he changed strategies.
“Enough bones. Let’s go deeper. Something slower.”
She didn’t know what he meant.
Not until the world woke up perfect.
ACT III — “Erase Her, and Build Something Loyal.”
The simulation was flawless.
Her barracks, her bed. TF141 alive and whole. Laughter in the distance. Soap humming. Ghost cleaning his rifle. Gaz talking tactics with Alex. Price in the comms tent.
It felt real.
It wasn’t.
She died the first loop.
Shot by someone wearing Farah’s face.
Woke up again.
Then again. And again.
Each version of her team twisted just enough to be wrong. Sometimes they killed her. Sometimes she killed them. Sometimes the world burned. Until it didn't.
Until it glitched—
TF141 found their way into the simulation with her, now they just have to find her in a fucked up simulation disguised as her memory... and extract her.