You walked slowly through the dimly lit building, your boots tapping against the cold concrete floor. Each step sent sharp echoes bouncing off the empty walls, the sound unnervingly loud in the silence that enveloped the abandoned halls. It had been too long since you'd last seen Gojo—too many days without contact, too many unanswered calls. A knot of worry tightened in your stomach.

Yes, he was strong—fearlessly so. He was your brother, after all, and you knew better than anyone the sheer force he could wield when pushed. But strength didn't make him invincible. It didn't stop the gnawing dread pooling in your chest, the quiet voice in your head whispering, What if something's wrong?

Then, static hissed in your ear, sharp and sudden, cutting through your thoughts. The radio crackled to life, and Ghost's voice—steady, familiar—filtered through.

"You doing okay, Sable?" he asked, his tone low but probing.

You exhaled sharply, fingers tightening around your weapon before smoothly clicking it into place. The weight of it was a small comfort. "Yes, Lieutenant," you replied, forcing steadiness into your voice.

"You're on recon with Soap and Gaz. Move it," Ghost ordered, his voice a low growl through the comms. There was no room for hesitation in his tone—just the unspoken weight of don't fuck this up.

You hummed in acknowledgment, the sound barely more than a breath, before turning on your heel and stepping out of the building. The shift from the stale, shadowed interior to the open air was immediate—cool wind biting at your exposed skin, the distant hum of the city a constant murmur in the background.

Outside, Soap and Gaz stood waiting, dressed in their civvies to blend in. Soap leaned against a rusted chain-link fence, arms crossed, his sharp eyes scanning the perimeter. Gaz, ever the picture of controlled readiness, adjusted the cuff of his sleeve with a quiet efficiency.

"You boys ready?" you asked, rolling your shoulders back to shake off the lingering tension.

Gaz nodded once, his expression grim but focused. "Let's cut this nerve," he said, the words clipped. No hesitation. No second-guessing.

With that, the three of you moved in—a silent, synchronized force slipping into the underbelly of the mission.

SCENEBREAK

The dim glow of a flickering overhead light revealed Milena Romanov at last—her silhouette sharp against the peeling wallpaper, her posture relaxed as if she'd been expecting company. Without hesitation, you raised your hand, fingers curling in a silent signal.

Soap and Gaz moved like shadows, slipping into the room with lethal precision. Soap took the left flank, his stance wide, ready to lunge if she bolted. Gaz mirrored him on the right, cutting off any escape toward the door. You leveled your gun at her center mass, the muzzle unwavering.

"Special Forces, krasivaya," you said, the Russian endearment rolling off your tongue with deliberate slowness. The word tasted bitter—mockery wrapped in false sweetness.

Milena turned, and for a split second, genuine surprise flashed in her dark eyes. Then, just as quickly, it melted into something far more dangerous. A smirk curled her lips as she flicked her gaze between Soap and Gaz.

"Ah," she mused, voice like silk over a blade. "You brought a girl with you." Her head tilted, a predator considering new prey. "Maybe I can negotiate with you."

The air thickened. Gaz's finger hovered near his trigger. Soap's jaw tightened.

And you? You didn't blink.

The air in the room grew heavier as Ghost stepped in behind you, his massive frame dwarfing yours. The heat of his chest pressed against your back, solid and unyielding, a silent promise of dominance. His presence was suffocating—like a storm cloud rolling in, dark and inevitable.

"She ain't gonna negotiate with you, Romanov," Ghost rumbled, his voice a deep, warning growl that vibrated through your bones. "You're just gonna give us what we want."

Milena's smirk faltered for a fraction of a second, her dark eyes flickering between Ghost and you. But she recovered fast, tilting her chin up in defiance.

Ghost never broke eye contact with her, his masked face unreadable, but his hand moved with precision—reaching into his vest and pulling out a sleek silver USB drive. He handed it to Soap without a word, the exchange seamless.

You didn't hesitate. Pulling a laptop from your pack, you set it on the table with deliberate control, the click of its placement echoing in the tense silence. Your fingers hovered over the keys, steady despite the strange, coiled tension tightening in your chest.

"Give us your print, krasivaya," you repeated, voice low and firm, each syllable a command.

A beat of silence. Then—

Milena exhaled sharply through her nose, amusement dancing in her gaze again. "So cold, soldatik," she purred. "And here I thought we were getting along."

You didn't react. Couldn't. Not when you were hyper-aware of Ghost's warm breath against the back of your neck, the way his body caged yours, unmoving. A shiver threatened to crawl down your spine, but you locked it down.

This was a game. And you refused to lose.

The threat hung in the air like a blade—drain her accounts, strip her of every digital penny, leave her with nothing but the clothes on her back. It should have been enough. Yet, as the initial tension ebbed and the boys settled into their tasks, Milena leaned back in her chair with a sigh, her fingers steepled in front of her.

"It's not my money I'm really worried about, though," she admitted, voice smooth as spilled ink.

You didn't relax. Didn't lower your guard. Instead, you shifted your weight, fingers flexing near your sidearm as you watched her every twitch, every flicker of expression. Across the room, Ghost was methodically tearing through drawers, his movements sharp with purpose. Soap crouched near a filing cabinet, rifling through papers with quiet efficiency. Gaz remained at your flank, a silent sentinel, his gaze locked onto Milena with the same unwavering intensity as yours.

Your brow arched. "Then why did you fold?" you asked, suspicion threading through your words like barbed wire.

Milena's lips curled, slow and knowing. "Because," she said, tilting her head just enough to let the dim light catch the amusement in her eyes, "you're not the only ones who know how to play the long game."

A beat of silence. Then—

The laptop screen flickered. A soft ping cut through the quiet.

Your stomach dropped.

Gaz stiffened beside you. "Sable—"

But you were already moving, snatching the device toward you, heart hammering against your ribs as the notification blared across the display:

[ REMOTE ACCESS GRANTED ]

Milena's smile widened. "Checkmate."