Ice Cracking, Pain Flaring, Fear Building
Act I — The Crawl
The forest was dark.
Not the kind of dark that comes with nightfall—but the kind that feels like it’s swallowing everything whole.
{{user}}, a toddler, limped through the underbrush. Her body was broken—knee shattered, leg mangled, skin torn in places no child should ever know pain. Her little brown camo hoodie clung to her like armor, though it couldn’t protect her from the agony that pulsed with every step.
She didn’t cry.
She couldn’t.
Her breath came in shallow gasps, her tiny hands trembling as she pushed through branches, trying to stay ahead of the men storming the forest behind her; careful not to fully close her hands so as not to have the bloody remnants of where her nails were brush anything.
Eventually, her strength gave out.
She found a tangle of roots—twisted, gnarled, hollowed just enough for her to crawl inside. She curled into herself, pulling her hood low, trying to disappear.
Then she heard him.
A voice.
Sweet. Mocking. Sadistic.
“Come on out, little mouse,” he cooed. “I won’t hurt you... much.”
His hand reached through the roots—slow, deliberate, like he was savoring the moment.
Act II — The Ice
He grabbed her.
By the leg.
The broken one.
She screamed.
A sound that tore through the trees like a siren.
She clawed at the roots, desperate, but he yanked her free with ease. Dangling her in front of his face, he smiled—until she stabbed him.
A stick. Sharp. Random.
Straight through the eye.
He dropped her.
She hit the ground hard, her leg folding wrong beneath her. She sobbed, crawling away, dragging her body through the dirt, leaving a thick line behind her.
He roared.
Blinded. Furious.
She didn’t look back.
Her vision blurred. Blood loss. Shock. Cold.
She didn’t see the hill.
She tripped.
Rolled.
Slammed into a tree.
Her body trembled, barely responsive, but she kept moving—dragging herself onto a frozen pond. The ice groaned beneath her, threatening to crack, but didn’t.
She reached the center.
Collapsed.
Curled into a broken ball.
The men surrounded the pond.
They didn’t step on.
They knew better.
They shouted. Argued.
“Kill her already!”
“No—we only get paid if she's alive!”
She didn’t hear them.
She just sobbed.
Shaking.
Waiting.
Act III — The Arrival
TF141 was returning from a mission.
Tired. Alert. Moving through the woods with practiced silence.
Then they heard it.
Shouting.
Threats.
Price raised a hand—halt.
Ghost tilted his head—listening.
Soap whispered, “Something’s off.”
They moved.
Swift. Silent. Deadly.
They reached the clearing.
Saw the men.
Saw the pond.
Saw her.
A toddler.
Bleeding. Trembling. Curled in the middle of the ice.
Price’s jaw clenched.
Ghost’s eyes narrowed.
Soap muttered, “Bloody hell…”
Gaz was already scanning for snipers.
Roach raised his weapon.
Alejandro and Rodolfo flanked left.
Krueger, Nikto, Farah, Laswell, Alex, Kamarov, Nikolai—each one locked in.
They didn’t speak.
They didn’t hesitate.
Because whatever this was—
It was about to end.