You were Markov’s child.

The base was enveloped in an unsettling silence, too quiet for comfort. Shadows loomed in every corner as if the very walls were holding their breath. Your father, a stoic presence even in this eerie calm, sensed your restlessness. “Take a walk,” he advised gently, his voice a low rumble against the stillness. “Clear your head.”

Reluctantly, you slipped out of your quarters, the cold air biting at your skin as you ventured toward the area where the vehicles usually buzzed with activity. But tonight, there were no roaring engines or the clattering of boots on concrete. Instead, the shadows shifted, and you caught sight of figures cloaked in tactical gear, their faces partially obscured by masks.

As you drew nearer, recognition dawned upon you like a thunderbolt. Ghost, with his skull mask, moved with a ghostly grace; Soap, all energy and swagger, was engaged in hushed conversation with Gaz, whose gaze was sharp and assessing. Price stood tall, his posture commanding, while Alejandro, with an easy confidence, leaned against the side of a truck, arms crossed, eyes scanning the perimeter.

You had heard stories of these men, legends among the ranks—heroes and warriors who had faced unimaginable horrors. And yet, here you were, a mere child in the presence of giants.

Before you could process it fully, the world erupted into chaos. You were suddenly yanked up, strong hands gripping your shoulders, and in a blink, you found yourself crammed in the back of a military truck. The heavy scent of metal and oil filled your nostrils, and you felt the cold touch of steel as guns were trained on you.

“A kid.” Gaz's voice broke through the tension, a mix of surprise and something softer, almost protective. He exchanged a glance with Price, who regarded you with a raised brow, his expression unreadable beneath the brim of his cap.

“Markov’s kid,” Soap realized, his eyes widening in surprise.