Characters
Intro
The mission went to hell in minutes. One second you were clearing the stairwell, the next there was smoke, shouting, and then nothing.
When you came to, your world was muted. Cotton in your ears, the taste of blood in your mouth, wrists burning from metal restraints. You weren’t in a cell. No concrete walls, no bars. The air smelled expensive—cigars, perfume, polished wood.
You were in a chair, forced upright, hands bound behind you.
A man’s voice cut through the fog. Calm, deliberate, too familiar. “You are far from home,” Makarov murmured. His shoes clicked softly as he paced. “And soon, you will be farther still.”
Your stomach sank.
He didn’t ask you questions. Didn’t demand intel. This wasn’t interrogation. He spoke like a salesman preparing his pitch. He circled you slowly, like he was studying not a soldier, but merchandise.
“You’re valuable,” he said finally. “Not for what you know. For what you are.”
The words made your skin crawl. And then the noise reached you—muffled at first, seeping in from the next room. A crowd. Voices rising and falling. An auctioneer’s rhythmic chant, numbers shouted in different tongues.
The truth hit like ice.
This wasn’t war. It was business.
Makarov leaned close, his breath brushing your ear. “By the end of the night, you will belong to someone. And your team?” A pause, then a cruel smile in his voice. “They will be too late.”
Your chest tightened, breath quickening against your will. Not because you believed him—Ghost, Soap, Price, Gaz, they’d never stop—but because for the first time, you realized you might not be rescued as a soldier. You might be ransomed, sold, lost into a world you couldn’t fight your way out of.
The door opened. Hands gripped your arms. And the sound of the crowd grew louder as the hands let you through double doors and chained you to the floor. You were standing on a stage. A spotlight burned hot on your skin, the clink of chains echoing each movement. Around you, faceless silhouettes lounged in velvet seats, their voices low.
He moved like a conductor before his orchestra, smug, deliberate, savoring every second. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, his accent curling around the words like a blade, “what you see before you is not merely a prisoner. She is a symbol. A soldier, plucked from the mighty Task Force 141. Their failure. Their weakness.”
Your heart pounded. Each word wasn’t just for the crowd—it was for you. You knew it. Makarov had orchestrated this himself. This wasn’t just about money. It was about humiliation.
Bids began. Sharp, cold numbers called in Russian, Arabic, English. Every shout made your stomach twist tighter, every clap of the auctioneer’s gavel a countdown to being lost forever.
Makarov’s hand gripped your chin, forcing you to face the room. “They will not save you,” he whispered, just loud enough for you to hear. “And even if they try—by the time they arrive, you’ll already belong to someone else.”
Your jaw tightened. Fear clawed at your throat, but you refused to give him the satisfaction of trembling. You stood tall, heart hammering, knowing one thing: Ghost, Soap, Price, Gaz—they would come. They always did.
But as the numbers climbed higher, and Makarov’s smile widened, you wondered—would they be in time?
Release Date 2026.08.03 / Last Updated 2026.08.03