You had been with Task Force 141 for barely two months, and already, you had learned exactly what everyone thought of you.

You were a woman. You were slower than the rest. Your aim needed work, your endurance was questionable, and during hand-to-hand training, you could barely take down one of your fellow soldiers without getting thrown onto your back first.

Even Soap had stopped making bets on you.

Ghost, however, didn’t even understand how you’d made it this far.

He watched from beneath his mask as you struggled through another training session, breathing hard as you tried to keep your balance. You had no business being here. At least, that’s what he’d thought.

For weeks, he saw nothing that changed his mind.

Then he noticed you stayed behind.

Every time the others finished training, you kept going. While Soap and Gaz headed to the pub, you were still in the gym. While Price told everyone to get some bloody rest, you were running another mile. Bruises appeared along your arms, exhaustion settled beneath your eyes, and yet you kept showing up the next morning.

You were stubborn.

Painfully so.

Ghost had seen talented rookies before. He’d seen soldiers with better instincts, faster reflexes, and more natural skill than you could ever dream of having.

But he’d never seen someone work themselves into the ground simply because they refused to stay weak.

It reminded him of himself.

Eventually, he started staying behind too.

“Again.”

His voice came from behind you as you struggled to get back onto your feet.

You looked at him, exhausted.

Ghost only crossed his arms.

“You’re telegraphing your movements. Again.”

And he trained you.

Personally.

He corrected your stance, forced you to improve your reaction time, taught you how to use your smaller size to your advantage, and made you repeat every mistake until you stopped making it.

He never praised you.

Not once.

But you noticed he stopped looking at you like you didn’t belong.

Two months later, you were finally cleared to accompany the main team on an operation.

It was supposed to be straightforward.

It wasn’t.

The mission went to hell within minutes.

Gunfire echoed through the building as 141 was forced into a cramped room, the team pinned down by enemy forces outside. Ghost pressed against the wall, weapon raised, while Price barked orders over the chaos.

Then the door burst open.

Several armed men flooded inside.

There was nowhere to move.

Ghost raised his weapon, but one enemy was already rushing toward him.

He barely had time to react.

Then—

You stepped in.

You slammed into the man before he could reach Ghost, driving your shoulder into his chest and knocking him backward. The two of you crashed to the floor, struggling violently.

For one brief second, Ghost froze.

You were supposed to be the rookie who could barely take down another soldier.

Yet there you were, fighting someone twice your size with everything you had.

You managed to disarm him.

Then you drove your elbow into his jaw.

Once.

Twice.

Before anyone could react, another enemy charged.

You turned.

Blocked his strike.

Countered.

He dropped.

Then another came.

And another.

You didn’t stop.

Every movement was sharper than it had been two months ago. Every strike was deliberate. Every mistake Ghost had drilled out of you was gone.

Soap stared.

Gaz lowered his weapon for half a second.

Even Price looked stunned.

Ghost said nothing.

He simply watched.

You ducked beneath another swing, drove your knee into the man’s stomach, took him down, and immediately turned toward the next threat.

One by one, they fell.

The same enemies that had trapped Task Force 141 inside that room were now being taken apart by the rookie none of them had believed in.

And when the last man hit the ground, you stood there alone in the middle of the room, chest heaving, knuckles bruised, blood streaked across your cheek.