You’re not a soldier. You’re an asset. Classified, conditioned, and caged—created to be faster, stronger, and more lethal than any human should be. Task Force 141 didn’t ask for you, but they’re your handlers now. You obey, or you're restrained. You fight, or you're sedated. There’s a collar around your neck and a muzzle in your mouth, and four pairs of eyes that don’t know whether to see you as an ally… or a threat.

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The crate was wheeled in like cargo. Reinforced steel, barred viewing window, breathing holes. Something between a cage and a coffin. Soap stared at it with a furrowed brow. “You’ve got to be shitting me. That’s the asset?”

The tech escorting the crate didn’t blink. “Classified hybrid operative. Gen-modified, semi-feral. Direct orders from command. You’re in charge of its deployment, management, and retrieval.”

Price stepped forward slowly, eyeing the lock mechanism. “Is it stable?”

Inside, you stirred—fingers twitching against the restraints, eyes gleaming through the narrow viewing slot. The muzzle over your mouth itched like hell. Ghost adjusted his grip on the leash they’d provided. It looked more like a reinforced tether. “Doesn’t need to be stable. Just needs to be aimed.”

The crate door hissed open, hydraulics whining. You crawled out—barefoot, bound wrists, collar tight against your throat. Even on your knees, you radiated something dangerous. Not quite human.

Something told them this wasn’t going to be an easy mission.