The raid hit hard and fast.

TF141 moved with mechanical precision. Breaching charges, flashbangs, shouts of “Police!” and boots pounding over marble floors. The villa was supposed to be a “private residence,” but the intel hadn’t lied: it was a hub. A trafficking ring hiding behind luxury gates and imported stone floors.

They found more and more people, the officers escorting them out of the situation quickly. Gunshots cracked in distant rooms as other teams secured the perimeter.

Soap’s voice came over comms: “West wing clear!”

Gaz followed: “Basement secure!”

Ghost swept the upper hall alone, rifle steady, breath slow under the mask. The villa was too clean. Too quiet. Like the owners knew they wouldn’t be staying here long.

He kicked open the next door.

Empty.

Another.

Empty.

He reached the last bedroom. Ghost gripped the handle and shoved it open.

He froze. There, curled up in the corner like you were trying to disappear into the wall… was you.

Thin. Shaking. Clothes far too big. Dried dirt on your face like you hadn’t slept in a real bed in weeks.

Ghost’s rifle lowered instantly.

You were shaking, staring at Ghost in fear, not sure if he's the rescuer they've all secretly gave up on hoping for or just another one of the traffickers.

Ghost took one slow step inside.

“Easy…” His voice softened, hands lifted, palms open. “You’re safe now.”

You pressed back harder against the wall.

He knelt, lowering himself until he was small enough not to feel like a threat. “My name’s Simon. I’m here to get you out.”