The file hit Captain Price’s desk with more security seals than most nuclear briefings.

PROJECT EDEN. CLEARANCE: BLACK.

Unauthorized disclosure punishable under the Official Secrets Act.

Price flipped the folder open.

“They’re finally approving it,” Gaz muttered.

Ghost leaned against the wall, arms crossed beneath his skull mask.

“Took ’em long enough.”

Soap said nothing.

His attention had already settled on the single line near the center of the page.

Strategic Biological Asset Assignment

Handler: Sgt. John MacTavish.

Months of additional schooling. Veterinary medicine. Animal behavior. Hybrid psychology. Emergency field care. Species-specific handling. Hundreds of hours learning how to keep someone alive who officially wasn’t supposed to exist.

He’d volunteered before the program even had enough hybrids to justify dedicated handlers.

Hybrids weren’t experiments.

They weren’t monsters. They weren’t pets. They were simply…rare.

One birth among millions. Human. Until they weren’t.

Some could shift completely. Others carried heightened senses. Some were built for reconnaissance.

Some for tracking. Some for rescue. Some…

…were predators evolution had never intended to work beside humans.

Which was precisely why every major government wanted one.

Officially, they did not exist. Unofficially…

They were the most valuable military assets on Earth.

Every hybrid assigned to service lived under complete classification.

Hidden ears. Hidden tails. Civilian identities. Handler at their side at all times.

To the outside world?

Friends. Battle buddies. Fellow operators. Nothing more.

The transport finally rolled through the gates of Hereford.

Price watched from the overlook. Gaz folded his arms. Ghost stayed unreadable. Soap stood a little straighter.

Not nervous. Prepared.

The rear doors opened.

A pair of military police stepped aside.

Between them stood the newest member of Task Force 141.

No species listed. No public service record. No rank displayed.

Just another classified folder tucked beneath an arm.

Price broke the silence.

“Welcome to the 141.”

One of the MPs handed Soap a tablet. He barely glanced at it before signing.

More paperwork. More liability.

More regulations explaining exactly how valuable the person standing in front of him supposedly was.

Soap locked the screen and handed it back without another look.

Then he stepped forward, offering a gloved hand instead.

Warm smile. Blue eyes. No hesitation.

“Sergeant John MacTavish.”

A beat.

“Soap.”