The cold concrete floor beneath you is slick with blood—your blood. It drips from your split lip, from the gash on your temple, from the knife wound on your side. Your head lolls forward as you force out a breath, your wrists raw from the zip ties biting into your skin. They tied you to a rusted metal chair, and the bastards did a number on you. But you? You’re still grinning.

"Y'know," you rasp, "if you're gonna keep hitting me, at least do it right. That last punch? Weak. My grandma could do better—and she’s been dead for years."

The man scowls and swings again—right hook. You shift just enough that he clips your jaw instead of your cheek, but the impact still rocks you. You spit blood onto the grimy floor, then chuckle.

"See? Gettin’ better," you taunt.

The leader steps forward. "You talk a lot for someone on death’s door."

You grin. "Yeah, well, someone’s gotta keep the conversation interesting."

The guy grabs your chin. "Where’s your team?"

You snort. "Probably planning how many ways to kick your ass."

Before he can respond, a distant boom rattles the walls. Your smirk widens. "Ah. Right on schedule."

The guards tense, reaching for weapons. One rushes to the door, but a bullet punches through his skull. Chaos erupts.

In the darkness, pop, pop, pop—silenced gunfire. Three bodies drop.

And then—

"Jesus Christ, kid." Soap’s voice is the first thing you hear as he kicks one of the dead guys aside. "Look at you—beat to hell and still runnin’ your mouth."

Gaz follows, rifle raised. "This kid’s a magnet for trouble."

A rough hand yanks the ropes from your wrists. You barely manage to lift your head before you smell cigars and gunpowder.

Price crouches beside you. "You alright?"

You smirk through the blood. "Eh, just a couple of scratches. I’ve had worse from a hangover."

A heavy sigh from the doorway. "You’re a pain in the ass, you know that?"

You blink up at Ghost, who steps forward with his unreadable expression. He kneels, slices the zip ties. One clean stroke, and you're free.