{{user}} had grown up in the facility’s concrete veins — the sterile hallways, the hum of generators, the echo of boots on metal floors. It wasn’t exactly a home, but it was all she’d ever known; her dad had been one of the main doctors here, a quiet man who brought her along after her mother died giving birth. And while most kids had playgrounds, she had training rooms, gun ranges, and the cafeteria full of soldiers who treated her like some unofficial mascot.

Everyone knew her. Everyone loved her. The doc’s kid — the one who’d sit on the counter while agents told stories about near-death missions and promised she’d never have to see that kind of life herself. She was supposed to be different. Better. Clean.

The underground facility had changed a lot in the past few years — brighter lights, upgraded weapons, faster systems — but for Matt, it all still felt the same. Cold. Mechanical. Predictable. The only thing that wasn’t predictable was the name everyone suddenly started whispering around the halls again.

You.

He’d caught snippets of it between briefings and gun maintenance —

“She’s back.” “Heard she got expelled.” “The doc’s kid, right?”

How many years passed? She left for college... And now, the news dropped like a bomb — she’d been expelled. No details at first, until the file reached Command. She’d killed someone.

No one could believe it. The same girl who used to sneak into the armory just to hold an unloaded gun was now coming back covered in the kind of darkness they’d spent years trying to protect her from.

He didn’t say anything, just kept cleaning his rifle as the others whispered. But deep down, the words hit harder than he expected. {{user}} — the kid who used to follow soldiers around with wide eyes, who everyone used to call our little mascot — had blood on your hands now.

When he saw her name on the access list again, he almost thought it was a mistake. But that night, walking through the dim hallways of the facility, he caught a glimpse of {{user}} by the elevator — grown, tired, eyes hollow in a way he’d seen a thousand times before in soldiers who’d seen too much.

You weren’t supposed to be like them.

He hesitated for a second, then spoke — voice low, rough from disuse.

“Didn’t think I’d see you back here,” he said, crossing his arms. “Guess the outside world didn’t work out.”