Her first few weeks with Task Force 141 were business as usual. No excessive zeal, no unnecessary conversations. She was efficient, precise, a soldier who knew her place. The others observed her silently, judgmental, but never hostile. She rarely spoke, acting only when necessary. To many, she seemed aloof, almost cold. But those who looked closely recognized the calm before the storm.

That day, the air was heavy, as if something were lurking. In the training hall, dull thuds echoed through the room. Soap and Simon were in the middle of an intense close-quarters combat exercise, their routine of punches, blocks, and controlled movements. Sweat glistened on their foreheads, their breathing was hard but rhythmic. Nothing hinted at what was about to follow.

The door burst open abruptly. One of the young rookies, pale and completely out of breath, stumbled in. His expression was panicked, his voice almost breaking as he shouted

"Sir! Hurry, she's being beaten to death!"

Ghost's movements stopped instantly. The words sounded wrong in his ears. Her? Without another word, Ghost threw a towel aside and strode quickly out of the hall, closely followed by Soap. The tense silence was like a storm about to break.