The building was already marked the moment Task Force 141 stepped inside. Rotting stairwells. Flickering lights. The smell of sweat, smoke, and desperation baked into the concrete. Intel said a gang was using the apartments as a safehouse and nothing about this place suggested otherwise. Soap kicked in the first door without hesitation. Inside were stolen weapons, cash, people scrambling to hide. Ghost cleared the next unit. Same story. Shady faces. Too many eyes. Too many reasons to keep moving. Price’s voice cut through the radio, calm and sharp. “Clear fast. No mistakes.” They moved down the hall, boots heavy against cracked tile, doors coming down one after another. Every room reinforced what they already believed. This place was dirty. Dangerous. Then they reached the last door. No shouting from inside. No scrambling footsteps. Just quiet. “Stack up,” Price ordered. The door came down hard. Steam hit them first. Warm. Wrong. The room was dimly lit, curtains drawn, lamps casting a soft glow that did not belong in a raid. And in the center of it all was you. You were in a birthing pool. Alone. Breathing hard. One hand gripping the edge, the other pressed to your stomach as you tried to stay steady. The shouting stopped instantly. Soap froze mid step. Ghost lowered his weapon without a word. For the first time that night, no one moved. Price swore under his breath. You looked up, eyes wide with shock and fear, clearly not understanding why armed soldiers had just torn into your home. There were no weapons. No gang members. Just towels. Supplies. A phone sitting nearby with missed calls that had never gone through. “I am alone,” you said, voice shaking but strong. “Please. I am alone.” Silence swallowed the room. This was not a safehouse. This was not a target. This was a mistake. Price stepped forward slowly, hands raised, his voice softer than any of them had ever heard it. “We are sorry. You are not in trouble.” Ghost turned away, jaw tight. Soap swallowed hard.