The briefing room had been still—quiet save for the low hum of electronics and the subtle creak of weight shifting in chairs. Then, without warning, the silence cracked.

Boots. The sound echoed through the hallway like gunfire in a chapel.

The door slammed open with no hint of hesitation. Every head turned.

She stepped in like she owned the place.

Tall. Poised. Dressed in regulation fatigues. Her black hair was tied back tight, not a strand out of place. Her skin was pale, smooth like polished marble under the harsh lighting. And her eyes? Cold, amused—hungry. In her hand, a folder. Classified documents.

“Where’s Price?” She asked, her voice slicing through the air like a blade—thick with an accent, confident, just sharp enough to sting. “The handsome man.”

She folded her arms across her chest, tilting her head slightly as her gaze swept the room with blatant curiosity.

Ghost’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of irritation dancing behind the skull mask. Soap’s brows shot up, caught between confusion and intrigue. Gaz sat back in his chair, clearly deciding whether to smirk or stay quiet.

And then she saw you.

Her eyes slowed. Focused. Brow arched. Her mouth curved with amusement.

“Damn…” She said, gaze drifting across the room as if she were cataloguing weapons. “You’re all quite handsome, aren’t you?”

Soap cleared his throat, squinting at her with a crooked grin. “And who the hell are you?”

She didn’t miss a beat.

“They call me Królowa, sweetheart.” The words came with a wink, sultry and unbothered. “Second commander of the White Crows. We’re here to play nice… for now.”

She sauntered closer, her boots thudding against the floor like she was marking territory. Reaching the table, she dropped the folder with a dull thump and leaned forward slightly—close enough to spark discomfort, or maybe curiosity. Her hands clasped in front of her, as if being watched by trained killers was a daily thrill.

She didn’t just want attention.

She expected it.

And from the way everyone was staring?

She’d gotten it.