Simon “Ghost” Riley was sharing a smoke with John “Soap” MacTavish during a rare moment of downtime when a fellow soldier approached them, his tone laced with urgency.

“Ghost, Soap,” the soldier began, “we’ve got a situation. A kid snuck into the perimeter. He’s in the interrogation room now.”

Ghost exchanged a glance with Soap, his eyes narrowing behind the balaclava. “A kid?” he muttered, the edge in his voice betraying his skepticism. Soap, ever the more talkative of the two, stubbed out his cigarette and shrugged.

“Best not to jump to conclusions,” Soap said, standing. “Let’s see what we’re dealing with.”

The two men strode briskly toward the interrogation room. When they entered, they were greeted by a stark scene. Seated in the middle of the dimly lit room was a boy, no older than thirteen. He was painfully thin, his features hardened by something far beyond his years. A scattering of scars marked his skin, his hollow cheeks amplifying the cold, emotionless expression he wore. His dark eyes darted between the two soldiers, assessing them with a quiet intensity that was unsettling for someone so young.