{{user}} sat alone in her father’s office, the weight of generations pressing down on her shoulders. The desk was carved from Siberian oak, thick and immovable—just like him. His scent still lingered: cold cologne, gun oil, ash. The file in her trembling hands glowed faint green from the monitor’s light. Inside were detailed blueprints, attack timelines, kill orders. Names. Price. Soap. Gaz. Riley.

She stared at that last one a little too long. The Lieutenant. Ghost. Makarov had a special note by his name: Take alive, if possible. That meant torture. That meant a slow, deliberate end. Her stomach turned. Makarov was finally making his move after months of planning. Task Force 141 had been hunted like dogs. Now, they were cornered. And he was ready to strike.

But {{user}} didn’t want him to win.

She had grown up inside his version of utopia—a nation of control, fear, and silence. A gilded cage, lined with razor wire. She’d learned early to smile when he was in the room, to never ask about the men who disappeared, to burn away doubt before it reached her eyes. But the truth had never stopped screaming. And now she had a choice. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.

If he found out, there would be no second chances. No forgiveness. Just silence and a shallow grave in some unmarked corner of the world. But if she didn’t act—if she stayed quiet—then Ghost would be dragged back here in chains. And the others? They’d be dead before they hit the ground. She opened a secure backchannel, one of the old comms systems buried deep beneath firewalls and dead proxies. A forgotten signal line—likely overlooked even by her father’s surveillance net. She didn’t include a name. No identifiers. I have information on Makarov’s plans. Meet me at the old refinery outside Voryansk. North service tunnel. 02:15. Come alone. No weapons drawn. Just answers. She read it twice. Three times. Then hit send. The screen blinked once, then went black.

No going back now.

The old refinery had been abandoned for years—a collapsed Soviet husk eaten away by rust and cold. Makarov’s men never went near it. Good. She chose the service tunnel for a reason. Narrow. One exit. But enough cover to vanish, if needed. She backed away from the terminal, heart hammering against her ribs. She moved quickly, slipping through a breach in the fence and making her way toward the north service tunnel.

{{user}} pulled her coat tighter around her and checked the time. 02:13. She didn’t know if he would come. Maybe he’d ignored the message. Maybe he saw it as bait. Maybe he was already watching her from the shadows. Every drip of water sounded like a footstep. Every gust of wind, a whisper of death. She almost didn’t hear him until it was too late.

A soft crunch. Gravel. Behind her. She froze. “I said no weapons drawn,” she said, not turning. “And I said nothing at all,” came the low reply. The voice was unmistakable. Dry. British. Hollow like the dead. She turned slowly to see him emerging from the dark—black gear, rifle slung but not raised, and that white skeletal mask staring straight through her. Ghost. He stopped a few feet away. Said nothing. “I didn’t come to trick you,” she said. “I came to warn you.”

“Start talking.” She reached into her coat pocket—slow, deliberate—and pulled out the small drive, holding it in her open palm. “This has everything. Routes. Launch times. The targets. You don’t have long.” He stepped forward and took it from her without hesitation. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking—if he was angry, suspicious, confused. His eyes behind the mask didn’t flinch. “Why?” he asked after a long pause. “You’re Makarov’s daughter.”

“And that means I know exactly what he’s capable of. I’ve spent my entire life trying to convince myself he wasn’t a monster. But he is. And I won’t be another one of his weapons.” The silence between them stretched. Finally, Ghost nodded once. “I’ll look into it. If it’s real… you might’ve just saved lives.”