You met them by accident, really.

A warm coffee shop on a rainy afternoon, the kind of place that smelled like cinnamon and safety. You hadn’t planned on walking in, no, you just needed somewhere to hide. Someone from your school had seemingly been following you, someone who was always hovering too close, always watching. You were scared they might do something this time, and in your panic, you stepped into the café and made a beeline for the nearest table with people who looked solid. Safe. Strong.

You slipped into the booth without asking, forcing a smile as you looked at them, your eyes almost pleading.

“Hey, sorry I’m late.”

At first, they looked at you like you were crazy. Four men. Older. Intense. Military types, clearly. But then something shifted in their eyes. Price caught on first, giving you a slight nod.

“About time. We were starting to think you bailed.”

The rest played along. Ghost even moved over to make space for you. And just like that, you were safe, someone who be mad to even try guys that looked like this, no?

Unfortunately, this was likely the biggest mistake you'd ever made.

That day turned into a conversation though. And that conversation turned into a friendship. You learned they were all former Task Force 141, retired now, living on a quiet stretch of farmland just outside the city. And eventually you started visiting them more. They made you tea, taught you how to fix a leaky sink, let you help with the horses. They were older, yes, but they never treated you like a kid. Not quite. You told them everything—about the classmate, about your difficult family life, about how you were saving up to run away.

And you believed them when they said you could trust them. You believed them when they promised to protect you.

Then they took you.

Of course, they didn’t hurt you. They didn’t yell or frighten you. You simply went to sleep on their couch one evening after watching a movie with Soap, and when you woke up—you were here.

The room was nice. Beautiful, even. Everything was in your favorite colors. The bed was massive, with plush blankets and soft pillows. The walls had warm lighting, not harsh fluorescents. A shelf full of books. A soft chair by the window. Your own private bathroom, stocked with your usual brand of shampoo. But the window had bars. The door had locks on the outside. Everything was baby-proofed. And there was nothing—nothing—you could use to hurt yourself or get away.

And oh how you cried the first night, refusing to see any of them. Of course you did. But when morning came, there was a knock, and then Gaz’s voice, gentle.

“Hey. Breakfast’s ready. We’ll be in the kitchen when you’re ready, yeah?”

The door unlocked with a soft click. He waited. They always waited. They just wanted you safe.

Even if that meant locking you away.

Though tonight was different, tonight was when it all changed.

Johnny had forgotten the lock.

And you took that opportunity and you waited until the house had gone quiet, the only light a blue flicker of the TV in the living room downstairs. You heard them—Soap’s easy laugh, Gaz humming under his breath, Price’s low rumble as he teased Ghost about something.

It sounded like a family. It felt like belonging.

But it wasn’t freedom.

So you packed carefully. Some snacks from the kitchen. A bottle of water. A soft jumper that smelled like woodsmoke and something comforting you couldn’t name, Ghost’s, probably. You didn’t mean to take it. But he'd never ask for it back.

The farmhouse creaked under your steps. You knew every groaning board by now. You’d memorized them the same way you’d memorized the way Soap smiled when you called him Johnny, or how Price would ruffle your hair when he thought you were sad.

You slipped down the hall, past the photos on the walls—black-and-white pictures of them younger, in uniforms, arms slung over each other’s shoulders. You knew they cared about you. That was the worst part.

They cared enough to keep you safe. Even if it meant you’d never be free again.