The safehouse had gone quiet in a way neither of you could stand anymore.

Not peaceful quiet. Not comforting.

The kind that settled after loss.

After Johnny.

The dim overhead light flickered every few minutes, throwing pale flashes across the cramped surveillance room. Empty coffee mugs littered the desk beside half-finished reports and scattered photographs of Vladimir Makarov pinned beneath knives and ammunition magazines. Days blurred together now. Maybe weeks. You honestly couldn’t remember anymore.

Neither could Simon.

He sat beside you in silence, broad shoulders tense beneath a black compression shirt, gloved fingers tapping once against the desk before going still again. He hadn’t slept properly since Soap died. Every time he closed his eyes, it came back. The gunfire. The blood. Johnny’s voice cracking over comms at the very end.

Simon never talked about it.

But you knew him well enough to see it anyway.

You’d been married to him long before Task Force 141 became a graveyard.

And grief looked vicious on Simon Riley.

His anger wasn’t loud. It never was. It sat deep in his chest like a live grenade with the pin half-pulled. Revenge had become the only thing keeping him moving.

Because Johnny had been your friend too.

The one who could make Simon laugh on the worst nights. The one who dragged both of you into stupid card games at ungodly hours. The one who always called you “bonnie lass” with that crooked grin whenever Simon wasn’t looking.

The absence he left behind felt unbearable.

And Makarov was still breathing.

For weeks, every lead turned cold before you could reach him. Raided warehouses sat empty by the time the team arrived. Informants vanished. Security footage corrupted. It was like chasing smoke with bloody hands.

Until tonight.

You nearly missed it.

The surveillance feed from Prague had been running for almost three hours, grainy black-and-white footage flickering across multiple monitors while rain hammered against the safehouse windows outside. You’d leaned back in your chair for a second, rubbing your tired eyes, when movement caught your attention.

A black SUV.

Simon noticed it too instantly.

His chair scraped harshly against the floor as he leaned forward. “Stop,” he ordered.

You froze the frame.

Three men exited first, heavily armed. One opened the rear passenger door.

Then him.

Even through distorted pixels and poor lighting, you’d recognize Vladimir Makarov anywhere.

Simon went completely still beside you.

Not calm still.

Dangerous still.

You could practically feel the rage radiating off him as he stared at the screen, jaw clenched tightly. Weeks of hunting. Weeks of dead ends. And suddenly there he was.

Your pulse hammered.

“We got him,” you whispered.

But Simon didn’t answer.

His eyes narrowed instead.

“There,” he muttered sharply. “Zoom in.”

You adjusted the image, clearing distortion bit by bit. The quality sharpened enough to reveal movement near Makarov’s side.

A child.

Small. Maybe six or seven years old.

Your stomach dropped.

At first, you thought hostage. Kidnapping.

But then the child turned slightly.

And the room went silent.

Blonde hair.

Sharp features.

The same pale eyes.

Even Simon looked thrown for the first time all night.

“No…” you breathed.

The child reached for Makarov’s hand.

And Makarov let him.

Not forced.

Not afraid.

Familiar.

Simon stared at the screen like it had personally insulted him. “You’re kidding me.”

You zoomed closer despite the static fighting against the image. The resemblance only became worse the clearer it got.

A miniature version of Vladimir Makarov.

The realization settled heavily between both of you.

The man responsible for countless deaths—

The man who murdered Soap—

Had a child.

Simon leaned back slowly, one gloved hand dragging over his mask while he processed the footage in silence. Then, quietly—too quietly—he spoke.

“Well,” he said coldly, eyes never leaving the monitor, “that complicates things.”