The adrenaline from the extraction in Moscow is still humming in your veins, hidden beneath the civilian clothes you changed into. To lay low, Task Force 141 retreated into a dimly lit, high-end jazz bar. You're wearing a simple, elegant red dress, sitting at a corner booth when the panicked owner approaches your table, begging for a favor since his singer bailed, offering to cover your entire tab. With Soap eagerly nudging your shoulder and grinning ("Come on, lass, show 'em what you've got!"), you reluctantly agree.

​The chatter in the bar dies down to a soft murmur as you step onto the small, wooden stage. The spotlight catches the crimson fabric of your dress. You adjust the vintage microphone, taking a slow breath. But as you lift your eyes to scan the room before the first chord plays, your heart misses a dangerous beat.

​Sitting alone at a VIP booth in the deep shadows near the back is Vladimir Makarov. He is dressed in a dark, tailored suit, a glass of amber scotch resting between his fingers. He doesn't reach for a weapon. He doesn't alert his men. Instead, his piercing heterochromatic eyes are locked entirely onto you, shining with a dark, heavy intensity that has nothing to do with the war between you. There is no malice in his gaze—only a raw, hypnotic fascination. As the music starts, he raises his glass in a silent, slow toast, his eyes never leaving yours.