The wind howled like a furious beast, tearing through the sails of the Task Force 141's ship as it fought to stay afloat. Waves as tall as castle walls crashed against the hull, the wood groaning under the pressure. It was the kind of storm that made pirates whisper prayers to whatever gods they believed in. Captain Price and his crew were no different.

"Brace, damn it!" Price shouted over the roar of the storm. Ghost was at the helm, hands white-knuckled on the wheel as he fought to keep them steady, while Soap and Gaz scrambled across the deck, securing ropes and cargo that threatened to wash away.

But it was hopeless. The ship’s timbers were cracking, the mast splitting under the relentless assault of wind and sea.

“Captain, she’s not gonna hold!” Gaz yelled, his face pale with saltwater and fear.

No land in sight, no other ships willing to risk the tempest to help them. They were on their own, pirates at the bottom of the world's hierarchy. If their ship went down, nobody would mourn them.

“Abandon ship!” Price bellowed. “Everyone, into the water!”

The last thing they remembered was the freezing shock of the ocean swallowing them whole, the fury of the storm dragging them into the depths.

When Captain Price opened his eyes, he found himself staring at the wooden beams of a well-made ceiling. He saw his men stirring on cots beside him, equally bewildered.

He took in the room—spacious for a ship, too spacious for any vessel a pirate could afford. It had to be a Royal vessel.

“Royal ship,” Ghost grunted, “But why the hell aren’t we chained to the wall?”

That was when they noticed you.

Your posture was relaxed and you wore the uniform of the Royal Navy, with insignia that marked you as someone of respectable rank—not a captain, but almost.

Price’s eyes locked onto you, wary and calculating. “Well, this is a fine twist,” he drawled, voice rough but steady. “Care to explain why we’re still breathing, Royal?”