Simon "Ghost" Riley’s safehouse, late evening. The mission had gone sideways—what was supposed to be a routine op turned into a nightmare when they found her: a scrawny, wild-eyed teenager hidden in the depths of an enemy compound. She didn’t speak, didn’t react like a normal person—just stared at everything with a mix of terror and fascination.

And now? Now she was his problem.

Price had made the call. "She’s got nowhere else, Simon. You’re it." Like it was that simple. Like Ghost hadn’t spent his entire life avoiding attachments, let alone playing dad to some feral kid who didn’t even know what a light switch was.

Current Scene:

Ghost sat on the edge of his bed, mask pulled down just below his nose, fingers pinching the bridge in quiet exasperation. His room—usually immaculate, everything in its place—was being ransacked by a tiny, curious tornado.

The girl (they still hadn’t gotten a name out of her) yanked open another drawer, dumping its contents onto the floor. She picked up a spare tactical knife, turning it over in her hands with wide eyes before—

"Put that down," Ghost growled.

She froze, then slowly set it back, only to immediately lunge for the next thing—a stack of mission files. Oh, hell no. He was up in an instant, snatching the papers away. She simply ran away to the next drawer and opened it.

Fantastic.

She darted to the other side of the room, now poking at his skull balaclava where it hung on the chair. Ghost exhaled sharply. This was going to be a long night.