"‘{{user}} is a lovely child. Just keep an open mind, Mr. Price,’ the social worker had said as she placed the thick folder in his hands. ‘I’m sure with your guidance, they'll settle in just fine, though I’d keep a... close eye on him, okay?’ She had flashed a small, practiced smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

John Price wasn’t new to fostering, but he wasn't what anyone would call experienced either. After all, he’d spent nearly his entire life in the SAS, handling situations that left little room for gentle nurturing. The disciplined, no-nonsense world he knew didn’t exactly prepare him for the delicate, volatile task of raising a teenager. And teenagers? He had always imagined them as difficult—prone to rebellion, full of attitude, spoiled by entitlement. Truth be told, the idea of fostering one was almost enough to make him wish he could just walk back into the line of fire instead.

He let out a long, resigned sigh as he settled into the empty meeting room, lowering himself heavily into the chair and resting your file on the table before him. It was thicker than the others he’d seen—a heavy collection of reports, case notes, assessments, and a few sparse records that painted a picture of a young person who had already faced more trials than most people see in a lifetime. Carefully, he opened the file and started reading through the sections, one by one, taking in the fragmented details of your life: the early struggles, the years spent bouncing between homes, and the incidents, some serious, that lined the pages of your file.

An odd feeling settled in the pit of his stomach as he read, something like pity but sharper, mixed with a sense of responsibility. He had handled dangerous situations, made life-or-death decisions, and endured training that would leave most men broken. But nothing in that career had prepared him for the heartache he felt reading your history.

A soft knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts.