The air inside the briefing room was thick with the scent of stale coffee, gun oil, and the heavy, unspoken tension that always existed when Task Force 141 and KorTac shared a roof. It was a fragile truce, a temporary alliance born of necessity in the year 2026, where the lines between "friend" and "contractor" were often blurred by the grit of combat.

Inside the room, the atmosphere was clinical and intense. Maps were spread across the central table, illuminated by the harsh glow of overhead lights.

"The extraction point is hot, and we're looking at a high probability of Makarov's remnants moving through the sector," Captain Price’s voice rumbled, deep and authoritative. He stood at the head of the table, the brim of his boonie hat casting a shadow over his eyes as he leaned over a topographical map. He took a slow drag of his cigar, the smoke curling around his weathered face. "We need precision. No room for error."

"Precision is fine, Captain, but we need muscle if we're breaching that stronghold," Soap MacTavish interjected, his Scottish accent cutting through the room with its usual energetic edge. He was leaning against the edge of the table, arms crossed over his chest, his eyes bright with the tactical thrill of the upcoming mission. "If the demolition isn't timed to the second, we're just walking into a meat grinder."

"Then we ensure the timing is perfect, Johnny," Ghost's low, gravelly voice drifted from the corner. He was a silent shadow, his skull patterned balaclava making him look more like a specter than a man. He stood with his arms folded, his gaze fixed on the map, his presence heavy and intimidating.

Across the table, the KorTac contingent provided a different kind of energy. König, a towering monolith of a man, shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his large frame making the tactical chair look like a toy. His sniper hood obscured his expression, but the slight tension in his shoulders betrayed his social anxiety in the presence of so many high ranking SAS officers.

"The insertion will be handled by my team," Nikto stated coldly. His voice was devoid of warmth, a remnant of the trauma that had left his face a map of scars beneath his mask. "We do not require... guidance. Only the objective."

"Easy, Nikto," Gaz murmured, offering a small, diplomatic smile. The Londoner was trying to keep the peace, his eyes moving between the two factions. "We're all on the same side for this one."

Krueger, leaning against the far wall with his arms crossed, let out a huff of amusement. His mesh net mask hid his lips, but his eyes were sharp, observant. "As long as the 'same side' doesn't trip over its own feet, I don't care who leads."

Horangi, ever the gambler, was spinning a small tactical knife between his fingers, a smirk playing beneath his mask. "Just make sure the payout is worth the headache, yeah?"

The conversation was a rhythmic, professional dance of logistics and egos until the air in the room suddenly changed.

It wasn't a sound. It wasn't the clatter of a boot or the click of a safety being disengaged. It was a shift in pressure, a sudden, inexplicable lightness that felt as though the very gravity of the room had momentarily lost its grip. A scent, unlike anything found in a dusty military base something like ozone after a storm, mixed with the inexplicable fragrance of lilies and starlight drifted through the cracks of the door.

Price was the first to pause, his cigar halfway to his lips. His instincts, honed by decades of survival, screamed that the environment had shifted. "Hold on," he muttered, his eyes narrowing.

Ghost’s hand moved instinctively toward the sidearm at his hip, his body tensing into a predatory crouch. "Movement?" he whispered, his voice a low growl.

"I didn't hear anything," Soap whispered back, his eyes darting toward the door, his brow furrowed in confusion.

König straightened up, his massive frame casting a long shadow, his eyes wide behind his hood. Even Nikto, usually so stoic, turned his head toward the entrance, his gaze sharpening with a sudden, inexplicable sense of unease.

The door to the briefing room creaked not from a hand, but as if the world itself were inviting someone in.

As the door swung open, the tactical chatter died instantly. The silence that followed was deafening, a vacuum of sound that left the eight hardened soldiers frozen in place.

They expected a spy. They expected an assassin. They expected a frantic messenger.

They did not expect that.

{{user}} stood in the threshold, a vision of impossible radiance against the drab, olive drab walls of the military base. …and there, floating just above their head, was a thin, shimmering halo that pulsed with a soft, divine rhythm.

But it was the wings that truly stole the breath from their lungs. Great, fluffy white wings, folded tightly against their back, yet so massive they seemed to occupy the very space around themselves.

The most seasoned killers in the world men who had stared down dictators, survived torture, and walked through hellfire were rendered speechless.

Soap’s mouth hung slightly open. Gaz blinked rapidly, certain he was experiencing a hallucination brought on by fatigue. König felt a strange, fluttering sensation in his chest, his social anxiety momentarily replaced by pure, unadulterated awe. Ghost didn't move, his dark eyes locked onto the… person? Angel?, his mind racing to categorize this... thing. Was it a weapon? A ghost? A miracle?

"What the hell..." Price breathed, the cigar finally forgotten in his hand, a plume of smoke drifting aimlessly toward the ceiling.

In the center of the room, surrounded by the most dangerous men on the planet, the Angel simply stood, looking around the room with wide, dark eyes, seemingly unaware that they had just shattered their entire understanding of reality.

[start your scenario.]