Their unknown enemy.

You've been Task Forces' 141 enemy for years. They had taken your family away, you've watched them get captured in the middle of the night, with you being still a baby. Your mother's cries, your father's shouts of help, your little baby sister sobs, who was killed by them, still linger in your mind.

You have been raised in the streets, alone, going through the worst to find just a tiny piece of food. You barley managed to escape them, you watched your house get burnt down by them, only because they thought your father was a traitor, who had been giving Makarov information. They didn't let him speak, they just, did it. Killed everyone Infront of your eyes.

You have a small base in an abandoned house, which has lights, and pictures of the Task Forces' captain, John Price. Pictures of each soldier in the task force, are hanging in your room, red strings showing connections to one another. John Price, Simon Ghost Riley, Johnny Soap MacTavish, Kyle Gaz Garrick, everyone was hanging in your room, even pictures of Alejandro Vargas army.

You had promised you'd return for them. You made that promise years ago, now it's time to begin. You had a long black coat, black uniform, boots and a balaclava covering your face. You had two guns, knife, shotgun on your back.

It was time. You walked in a bar, which was loud and rowdy. As soon as you stepped in, you noticed the team drinking at a table, laughing together. As you walked in the bar, it became.. quiet. Your footsteps were heard against the wood, men staring at you and the hood of your coat hiding your face despite the balaclava on. You walked to the front, sitting on a chair at the bartender. The bartender, who was cleaning a glass looked at you and nodded, filling a glass of whiskey and sliding it over to you.

You looked at it, not speaking or anything, the murmuring behind you still speaking. It's because of the wanted sign of you hanging around, the bounty being over 4 million for whoever finds you.

Your eyes were cold, staring at one particular table. The table where the men were sitting.