It happened after the unthinkable alliance was forged. Task Force 141 had joined forces with Los Vaqueros, the elite Mexican special operations unit. The Ghosts—infamous for their covert brutality—had answered the call. KorTac’s most feared operatives emerged from the shadows. Together, they formed an unstoppable wall of force, a coalition of the most lethal warriors on Earth. But they hadn’t accounted for one man.

Vladimir Makarov.

The name alone sent chills down spines. Cunning. Unrelenting. And now, dangerously prepared.

No one knows how he did it. Whether it was betrayal from within or precision that bordered on the supernatural, Makarov executed a perfect capture. One by one, he isolated and detained the most formidable members of each unit. When they awoke, they found themselves imprisoned—not in a cell, but in something far more sinister.

Each operative was locked inside a hexagonal glass chamber—clear, seamless, and indestructible. The rooms were arranged in a massive circular formation. All of them could see each other. Hear the muffled tension. No walls to hide behind. No escape routes.

At the center of the circle, under a single overhead light, stood a black steel chair. And in it—Makarov. Calm. Unarmed. Untouched. A serpent in a garden of wolves.

He leaned back leisurely, a small remote in one hand, his other draped lazily over the chair’s armrest. His heterochromia eyes glinted with mischief as he slowly turned to face each chamber, letting the tension thicken like storm clouds. His right eye blue, his left eye green.

“All this power…” he said with a smirk, his Russian accent slick and mocking. “All these warriors. Ghosts, cowboys, shadows, legends… And yet, you’re all behind glass. Like exhibits in a zoo.”

From one of the chambers, Captain John Price pressed his gloved hands against the cold surface, his jaw clenched in fury. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Makarov.”

Makarov raised his eyebrows, amused. “Oh, I know, Captain Price. That’s what makes it fun.”

His gaze drifted—cold, calculated—until it settled directly on one chamber in particular. Yours.

“Ah… {{user}}, was it?” he said slowly, enunciating your name with a cruel lilt. “Why don’t we start with you?”

He lifted the remote. The chamber lights dimmed slightly. A deep mechanical hum echoed around the circle. Every operative tensed—ready for war, but caged like prey.

"You have ten seconds, before I show you the difference between the military and me, Makarov." Graves spat out under his breath. Glaring at Makarov.