The shot came from a distance—clean, precise, and without warning. One moment, you were sweeping the hallway with your rifle; the next, searing pain tore through your side. You cried out and crumpled to the ground, your weapon skidding across the floor as your hands flew to the wound, warm blood already soaking through your uniform. You tried to move, to crawl behind cover, but your body betrayed you, weak, shaking, overwhelmed.

Footsteps echoed through the corridor—steady, deliberate. He was approaching.

Ghost emerged from the shadows, his rifle still raised, every movement practiced and calm. He didn’t know who he had hit, only that it was a threat. But as he stepped closer, his weapon hesitated.

There you were, lying in a growing pool of blood, no older than sixteen. Your small frame barely filling the tactical gear strapped around you. Thick black war paint smeared across your face, masking everything except your eyes: wide, glassy, and brimming with shock and fear. The rifle you'd carried now lay feet away, far too large for your hands, a cruel contrast to the trembling figure on the floor.

Ghost stopped in his tracks, stunned.

“…a kid?”

His voice is low, shocked. You stare up at him, shaking. In that moment, the uniform, the gear, the gun, none of it hides what you really are. Just a girl, too young for war.