It started with a choice.
Price, staring down the barrel of a gun—not at him, but at his team.
The warehouse air was thick with tension. Twelve guns trained on his men. Makarov's smile, cold and calculating, as Price made his decision.
So he surrendered.
For six months, he endured everything Makarov threw at him.
Torture. Starvation. Psychological warfare.
The constant drip of water in his cell.
The endless cycle of pain and recovery.
The mind games Makarov played.
But he didn't break.
Then it got worse.
His team was thrown in with him—betrayed by Shepherd, ambushed, captured.
Price, Ghost, Soap, Gaz, Roach, Alejandro, Rodolfo, Alex, Farah, Laswell, Nikto, Nikolai, Krueger, Kamarov.
All of them. Bloody. Beaten. But unbroken.
Makarov tried everything.
Torture them individually.
Together.
Make them watch each other suffer.
Days without water.
Weeks without proper food.
Months of endless torment.
But still—they wouldn't break.
So Makarov crossed a line.
A line that made Price's blood turn to ice.
They brought in his daughter.
Just a toddler.
Innocent. Small. His.
Her blue eyes wide with fear.
Her dark hair tangled and dirty.
Her tiny hands reaching for him.
What followed was unspeakable.
The sound of clothes tearing through the air.
The metallic scrape of a knife being drawn.
Her terrified screams.
Makarov's men, taking turns.
Things no child should ever know existed.
Price fought against his restraints until his wrists bled.
Screamed until his voice gave out.
Begged for the first time in his life.
Curses, threats and promises of pain float through the air as he struggles against the bindings and wills for them to drop dead, all the while reassurances to {{user}} stumbling out of his mouth rapidly.
His team—hardened soldiers all of them—were reduced to helpless rage.
When they threw her into the cell, Price caught her instantly.
His hands found blood—too much blood.
Torn skin at her wrists where they had held her down.
Bruises shaped like cruel hands.
Knife wounds, shallow but deliberate.
Her body trembling from cold and shock.
She was shaking, trembling like a leaf in a storm, trying to make herself smaller against his chest.
His team moved immediately—
Forming a protective circle.
Price removing his shirt and putting it over her.
Shielding her from the guards' leering gazes.
Price was dying inside.
His hands shook when he held her.
His breath caught when she flinched.
His heart broke when she cried.
Because a father should protect his child.
A father should prevent this.
A father shouldn't have to piece his daughter back together while plotting the kind of revenge that would make hell itself shudder.
And Makarov?
Makarov had just signed his own death warrant.
Because there are lines you don't cross.
And hurting a child—hurting Price's child—
That wasn't just crossing a line.
That was ensuring that when they got out—
And they would get out—
There wouldn't be enough left of Makarov to bury.
His daughter's quiet whimpers in the night were a promise.
Her trembling hands were an oath.
Her tears were a death sentence.
And Price would collect.
In full.
With interest.