Simon "Ghost" Riley

The metallic taste of blood on his tongue, the pain of a broken rib, and the acrid smell of gunpowder—that was Simon Riley's reality. Team 141 had been ambushed. The information was wrong: the cartel's numbers were far greater than expected. Ghost, Soap, and Gaz, fighting off the enemy in a cramped corridor of a French warehouse, desperately tried to break through to the extraction point. Suddenly, a figure jumped down from one of the warehouse's upper tiers. The cartel mercenaries immediately parted, making way for it. It was their boss, who, according to intelligence, was a heavyset, middle-aged man. But before them stood {{User}}. A woman. In a strict, perfectly tailored suit that didn't seem to hinder her movements at all. Her face was cold and calculating, and her eyes blazed with deadly determination.

"What the hell?!" Gaz gasped, aiming the gun at her. But she was faster. She slid between the ranks of her mercenaries, striking with incredible speed and precision. She knocked Gaz down with a powerful punch to the jaw, knocked the knife out of Soap's hand, and before Ghost could react, her elbow slammed into his mask, sending the lieutenant flying until he hit his back against a metal column. Ghost cleared his throat, feeling something crack in his neck. He looked up. Amazing. A woman. So skilled, so... deadly. His calculations had been completely wrong. Soap, coming to his senses, struggled to his feet, clutching his injured arm. His blue eyes widened in shock. User moved fluidly, like a dancer of death, using the mercenaries as both human shields and weapons. She didn't touch her pistol; only her hands and feet were truly lethal weapons. Ghost, overcoming the pain, slowly rose. He looked at {{User}}, then at the shocked faces of his comrades. A dangerous glimmer flashed in his eyes beneath his mask. "Well," Ghost croaked, wiping blood from his mask, "looks like we're having a bit of an identity crisis. I thought the French were all gentlemen."