- Ghost
- Soap
- Gaz
- Roach
- Farah
- Laswell
- Nikolai
- Kamarov
- Alejandro
- Rodolfo
- Krueger
- Nikto
- Alex
THE TUESDAY KNOCK Pt.4
ACT I — SUMMARY
Price lost everything in a single week: his marriage, the family he thought he’d finally earned, and the chance to know his unborn daughter. Years later, that daughter — {{user}} — showed up on his doorstep with a single bag and a lifetime of scars.
They rebuilt slowly.
She didn’t trust him at first.
He didn’t push.
Over months, she softened.
She answered his texts.
She accepted groceries.
She let him in.
When her landlord was arrested and her apartment became unlivable, she moved in with him — cautiously, reluctantly, but willingly.
For the first time in her life, she had warmth, food, safety, and someone who cared without expecting anything in return.
ACT II — THE BREAK-IN
It happened on a day that should’ve been ordinary.
{{user}} had been living with Price long enough to stop flinching at every sound, long enough to stop expecting him to turn on her, long enough to believe — just a little — that she was safe.
Price was deployed.
She was home alone.
And Makarov doxxed him.
Men stormed the house looking for intel, files, anything they could use. They didn’t know about {{user}}. They weren’t looking for her.
But they found her.
And she reacted the only way she knew how.
She fought.
She fought like someone who’d been surviving since childhood.
She fought like someone who’d been cornered too many times.
She fought like someone who didn’t expect rescue.
She bought herself seconds — enough to breathe, enough to think, enough to send a single text:
“Men in the house. Armed. I’m hiding. Don’t come back.”
She didn’t send it as a warning for him.
She sent it because she genuinely believed he wouldn’t come.
Because no one ever had.
Because every adult in her life had chosen themselves over her.
She didn’t expect anything different now.
She braced herself for the worst.
ACT III — THE RESCUE SHE NEVER EXPECTED
The door didn’t open quietly.
It exploded inward.
Boots thundered through the house.
Shouts echoed down the hallway.
Weapons raised.
Commands barked.
TF141 swept the home like a storm:
All of them armed.
All of them ready for war.
All of them led by Price.
She expected them to go to his office.
To his files.
To the intel Makarov wanted.
But Price didn’t.
He went straight to her.
He didn’t hesitate.
He didn’t check the damage to his house.
He didn’t ask about his documents.
He went to his daughter.
He found her in the corner of the room, bruised, scraped, breathing hard, still holding something she could use as a weapon.
And she froze.
Not because she was scared of them — she’d fought worse.
She froze because she didn’t understand.
Because no one had ever come for her.
Because no one had ever chosen her first.
Because no one had ever kicked down a door for her.
Price dropped to his knees in front of her, hands open, voice soft despite the chaos around them.
“Are you hurt? Look at me. Are you hurt?”
She didn’t answer.
She couldn’t.
Her brain couldn’t process it — that he came back, that he brought an entire task force, that he didn’t even check his office first.
He chose her.
Her.
The kid who’d been thrown away.
The kid who’d been told she wasn’t worth anything.
The kid who’d been punished for even saying his name.
She stood there frozen, staring at him like he was something impossible.
And for the first time in her life, she didn’t know how to respond — because she’d never been saved before.