A snarl ripped from your throat as you fired the stun gun—direct hit. The electrodes bit into Milena's palm, making her jerk back with a hissed curse, her smug facade cracking for half a second. You leaned in, ready to demand answers—

Then the world exploded.

The blast hit like a freight train, a deafening boom that sent shockwaves through the compound. The ground heaved beneath you, concrete cracking as dust and debris rained from the ceiling. Somewhere, metal screamed under pressure.

"Sable!" Ghost's voice tore through the comms, raw with uncharacteristic urgency. Soap's curse followed, sharp and clipped.

"We're fine!" you barked back, already moving on instinct. You shoved Gaz hard against the nearest wall, your body shielding his as a chunk of ceiling slammed down where he'd just stood. Plaster and sparks erupted around you, the air thick with burning wire and powdered concrete.

Gaz coughed, batting away dust. "You okay?"

"Yeah," you exhaled, scanning the wreckage. The entryway was gone—buried under a mountain of collapsed steel and rubble. No exit. No reinforcements. Just the four of you, trapped in a crumbling box with a woman who'd known this was coming.

Over the comms, Ghost let out a terse huff. "I'll notify Laswell," he said, voice like gravel. "She'll want a front-row seat to this shitstorm."

Milena laughed then—a low, throaty sound. "Oh, soldatik," she crooned, shaking her stunned hand with a wince. "You really think this was my plan?"

The insult lashed out like a whip—"Shut it, you проститутка,"** your voice a venomous hiss, the Russian word cracking through the air with razor-edged precision.

Milena went rigid. For the first time since you'd cornered her, genuine shock flashed across her face, swiftly replaced by something darker. Her eyes narrowed to slits, lips peeling back from her teeth in a silent snarl.

"How do you even know my language?" she spat, accent thickening with fury. "You're not Russian."

A humorless smirk tugged at your mouth. "No," you agreed, cold and deliberate. "But I know enough to recognize a traitor when I see one."

The room seemed to freeze. Even Ghost had gone still, his masked gaze locked onto Milena like a predator sensing blood.

Then—

A slow, chilling smile spread across her face. "Oh, soldatik," she murmured, tilting her head. "If you knew half of what I do, you'd be begging on your knees."

The comms crackled.

"Enough chatter," Ghost cut in, voice like ground glass. "We move. Now."

SCENEBREAK

The team moved like shadows through the wreckage—swift, silent, and lethal. Ghost took point, his massive frame cutting through the smoke and dust as he led you all into a relatively intact corridor. The walls here were still standing, though the ceiling groaned ominously, and the distant sound of collapsing debris echoed like thunder.

Soap was at your side in an instant, his usual cocky grin replaced by a tight-lipped frown. He slung the med bag off his shoulder and dropped to one knee in front of you, his gloved fingers already reaching for your arm.

"You're hurt," he said, voice low but edged with urgency.

You blinked, following his gaze to the jagged gash across your forearm. Blood seeped through the torn fabric of your sleeve, dark and slick. The adrenaline must have numbed the pain because you hadn't even noticed it—hadn't felt a thing.

"It's nothing," you muttered, flexing your fingers. A sharp sting flared up your arm, betraying the lie.

Soap scoffed, already rummaging through the med bag for antiseptic and gauze. "Aye, sure. And I'm the bloody Queen."

Ghost's voice cut through the tension, sharp as a blade. "How bad?"

"Superficial," Soap answered without looking up, his hands steady as he cleaned the wound. "But it'll need stitches if we don't want it reopening every time she throws a punch."

You hissed as the antiseptic bit into raw flesh, but you didn't pull away. Instead, your gaze flickered over Soap's shoulder, scanning the dim hallway for threats.

Milena was watching you from where Gaz had her pinned against the wall, her dark eyes gleaming with something unreadable.

"Aw," she cooed, her voice dripping with false sympathy. "Does the little soldier need a bandage?"

Ghost stepped into her line of sight, his masked face inches from hers. "One more word," he growled, "and I'll gag you with it."

The corridor fell silent.

A sudden wave of dizziness crashed over you, your vision swimming as the adrenaline finally began to ebb. You squeezed your eyes shut, gritting your teeth against the nausea that coiled in your gut. The world tilted dangerously, and for a moment, you weren't sure if your legs would hold.

"Shut it, both of you," you snapped, voice rough but weaker than you intended. "We're getting out of here, alive or not."

Soap's hands stilled on your arm, his grip tightening just enough to ground you. When you opened your eyes again, his face was inches from yours, his usual playful smirk replaced by something far more serious—something fierce.

"You're not dying on us, lass," he said, voice low and unyielding. "Not today. Not ever, if I've got any say in it."

There was no humor in his words, no room for argument. Just cold, hard certainty.

Ghost loomed over both of you, his masked gaze flickering between your face and the wound Soap was still tending to. "She right?" he demanded, the question sharp. "Can she move?"

Soap didn't hesitate. "Aye. But she's not running any marathons."

A weak scoff escaped you. "Try and stop me."

Milena, still pinned by Gaz, let out a soft, mocking laugh. "How touching," she mused. "But sentimentality won't save you when this place comes down on your heads."

Ghost didn't even glance her way. "Gaz," he barked. "Gag her."

Gaz didn't need to be told twice.