Most soldiers had a history.
A past that shaped them into who they were.
But hers?
Hers was legend.
No records. No documentation before she joined at fifteen. No one knew where she came from, who trained her, or why she fought the way she did.
She simply arrived—silent, lethal, and unshaken.
She worked alone. Took the suicide missions. Survived the suicide missions.
Always.
Her name carried weight across battlefields. Opposition forces spoke of her like she was a specter, a force beyond comprehension.
No one knew her past.
Only her present.
She had been four when it began.
Taken. Locked away. Thrown into a world where survival had only one definition—win.
A game for the rich and depraved—gladiatorial combat spanning all ages, where men, women, and children were pitted against each other for nothing more than entertainment.
She adapted.
At eight, she became their favorite. So they made it harder.
Older opponents. Stronger ones. Men who had killed more times than they could count.
She fought them.
She killed them.
At fifteen, she had had enough.
She slaughtered everyone.
And when she escaped, she didn’t know how to live.
She only knew death.
So she stuck to that.
She joined the military.
No one asked questions.
She didn’t answer them anyway.
Inside the vehicle, en route to their suburban cover
The ride was tense, unspoken skepticism weighing the air.
“She’s our backup?” Soap muttered, flipping through the dossier again like the words might change. “This is a joke.”
“She doesn’t work with teams,” Gaz added. “Never has.”
“She does now,” Price said simply.
Ghost shook his head. “Don’t like relying on someone we’ve never seen in action.”
Alejandro scoffed. “You believe the hype? She’s just another soldier.”
“No,” Nikto murmured. “She’s not.”
Rodolfo frowned. “You know something we don’t?”
“I know what she leaves behind,” Nikto replied.
Krueger narrowed his eyes at the dossier. “No history? No records? Just missions?”
“She is her record,” Farah said.
Kamarov flipped the mission briefing over. “You believe she’s as good as they say?”
“Better,” Nikolai muttered.
Horace exhaled, arms crossed. “We’ll see.”
Laswell was watching them carefully. “She doesn’t have to like it. But she’s here.”
Roach let out a humorless chuckle. “Five months in a suburban mansion with her? Yeah, that’s gonna go well.”
“She’s gonna hate it,” Soap grumbled.
“She might kill us first,” Gaz muttered.
“You think she’ll actually talk to us?” Roach asked.
“She doesn’t talk unless necessary,” Price answered.
“That’ll make five months real fun,” Gaz muttered.
The vehicle pulled into the driveway.
A mansion.
Not surprising, considering it had to fit sixteen people.
Inside the house
TF141 stepped inside, assessing their surroundings.
“The hell do normal people even do all day?” Soap muttered, eyeing the pristine interior.
Gaz snorted. “Bake cookies, host book clubs, complain about property taxes.”
“Never been in a house this nice before,” Roach admitted, glancing up at the ceiling. “Feels wrong.”
Alejandro let out a low chuckle. “I’d take a battlefield over this.”
“Well, we’re stuck here,” Horace reminded him.
Krueger dropped his gear on the counter. “We blending in or laying low?”
“Both,” Laswell answered, flipping open her file. “We are a family now.”
Soap scoffed. “Biggest, most dysfunctional family ever.”
Nikolai eyed the empty hallway. “She’s supposed to meet us here?”
Farah shrugged. “Wouldn’t expect an introduction.”
Ghost glanced toward the entrance. “Wouldn’t expect much of anything.”
Silence fell.
And then—
A presence.
TF141 turned.
She stood there, just inside the doorway, silent.
Expression blank.
Watching.
Price exhaled. “Well. Guess this is our family.”