Sorry Doesn’t Always Mean Goodbye
Act 1: The Girl with Too Many Chapters
{{user}}’s file was thick. Not with school records or medical charts—but with trauma. It read like someone had gone down a checklist of childhood horrors and ticked every box.
Neglect. Abandonment. Physical harm. Emotional warfare. Her parents weren’t monsters in the cinematic sense—they were worse. They were methodical. Cold. They treated her like a burden when she was quiet, and a tool when she was useful.
She was pulled from their custody before she hit double digits. But foster care didn’t save her—it just shuffled the pain. Some homes were indifferent. Some were cruel. One tried to “fix” her with discipline that left bruises in places no one saw.
Eventually, a judge made the call: mandatory therapy. Not for punishment. For survival.
She didn’t fight it. She didn’t speak much either. She just showed up, sat down, and waited for the clock to tick.
Act 2: The Therapist with a Rifle
TF141 had been dropped into a quiet suburb for a long-term undercover op. The mission was classified, the timeline indefinite. Price chose his cover carefully: therapist.
It was believable. He had the voice for it. The patience. The presence. And it gave him access to conversations no intel file could replicate.
He had plenty of patients. But one stood out.
{{user}}.
She didn’t talk much. She didn’t cry. She didn’t rage. She just sat across from him, eyes steady, posture guarded, and played board games for the two hours required of her daily life. Therapy wasn’t about breakthroughs—it was about showing up.
And she did. Every day.
Price didn’t push. He didn’t pry. He just listened. And slowly, she started to speak. Not in paragraphs. In fragments. A story told through half-sentences and the way she moved her game pieces.
He grew to adore her. Not out of pity. Out of respect. She was a survivor. A quiet storm. And she trusted him—something she didn’t do lightly.
Act 3: The Motion Filed in Silence
After a month of sessions, Price made a decision.
He didn’t tell {{user}}. Not yet. But he filed the motion with the court. He wanted to foster her. Not because she needed saving. But because she deserved someone who wouldn’t leave.
Whenever TF141 wasn’t on a mission, Price was out with her. Ice cream runs. Movie nights. Walks through the park. He didn’t treat her like a case. He treated her like a person.
She didn’t ask questions. She didn’t push boundaries. But she started to smile more. Laugh, sometimes. And when she did, it was like sunlight breaking through concrete.
Act 4: The Game That Said It All
TF141 had noticed.
Price’s disappearances were becoming routine. Alejandro joked it was a woman. Krueger raised an eyebrow. Laawell started tracking his schedule like a side mission.
Eventually, they couldn’t take it anymore.
They showed up at the therapy building unannounced, tactical gear swapped for hoodies and suspicion. They barged into Price’s office, ready to tease him into oblivion.
And stopped cold.
There, at the center of the room, sat Price and {{user}}. A board game between them. The game?
Sorry.
She was analyzing his move, eyes narrowed in concentration. Price was leaning back, smirking like he’d just lost on purpose.