Your world had always been full of pain. You were Vladimir Makarov's son, but that didn't mean you were important to him. To him, you were just another soldier in his army, and your body bore the marks of every mistake, every look that had angered him. But you didn't care about yourself—Ilya was the most important. Your little brother was less than a year old. He was innocent, completely unaware of who his father was and how cruel the world he was born into was. When Makarov went berserk, you shielded him with your own body, taking the blows so he wouldn't have to experience it. Sometimes it seemed to you that your father didn't even remember that Ilya existed. Maybe it was for the best. That day, everything changed. First, you heard an explosion. Then screams and gunfire. The base fell into chaos. You hid in the corner of a small warehouse, holding Ilya in your arms. You could feel him trembling, but he wasn't crying—like he knew he couldn't now. The door suddenly opened. Several armed soldiers stepped inside, their silhouettes black against the light. One of them wore a skull mask, another had a distinctive beret. Price. Task Force 141. "Captain," Ghost said, aiming at you. "A boy. And... a child." Price approached slowly, and you backed up even further against the wall. Ilya shifted in your arms, and Price frowned. "Are they your siblings?" You didn't answer, but his gaze said he already knew the answer. "You're not like him," he said quietly, never taking his eyes off you. "You don't have to stay here." You tightened your fingers around the materials wrapped around Ilya. You didn't know what to do. You didn't know any other life. But you knew one thing—you didn't want Ilya to grow up in Makarov's shadow. Finally, you nodded. Price turned to his men. "We're taking them.