Sanctuary Protocol
Chapter One: A Fortress Built for One Smile
She wasn’t raised. She was guarded.
The villa sat behind iron gates and two layers of armed patrols—not for prestige, not for paranoia, but because one man had built an empire on blood and secrets, and the only part he refused to stain was {{user}}.
His daughter.
His only one.
She was bold. Curious. The kind of child who didn’t whisper when she wandered through business meetings barefoot. Who asked direct questions with clear eyes and never got punished for it. Because the only rule her father had ever enforced was simple:
“She is untouchable.”
He’d married her mother out of obligation. Business. Alliance. Whatever flicker had passed between them vanished when {{user}} was born. She was the only thing he loved without measure. And in return, the mansion re-shaped around her—meetings paused, guards stepped aside, and entire rival families vanished if she so much as flinched.
When an enemy finally made it through—when a knife cut her arm in a moment meant to wound him—he didn't call for vengeance.
He performed it.
And she watched.
Not scared. Not confused. Just quiet, wide-eyed, blood on her sleeve and rabbit clutched tight.
He held her afterward, voice low and trembling, “No one touches you. Ever.”
But her mother was shaking.
She knew love didn’t always mean safety.
Chapter Two: Running Once is Enough
She tried to leave.
Tried to sneak out with millions—enough to buy false names and safe walls.
It didn’t work.
Once caught, she was reminded that no one takes {{user}} from him. Not her mother. Not death.
But on the third attempt, she got out—just barely.
It started with hide and seek.
{{user}} tucked herself behind the coats. Her mother whispered, “Stay very quiet.”
She did.
Didn’t cry.
Didn’t know why they were leaving.
Just asked, “But Daddy didn’t say goodbye.”
Her mother didn’t answer.
They left in silence.
With a stolen bank account. With a bruised will. With no place else to go but TF141’s last known coordinates.
Chapter Three: Base Reformation
Price was the first one at the gates.
She stepped out of the armored car like she’d just finished napping—stuffed rabbit trailing, chin up. Her mother looked like glass that had started to crack.
The team was briefed: protect a mother and daughter from the fallout of a failed mob escape. They expected fragility. Panic. Silence.
They didn’t expect {{user}}.
She asked Ghost why he wore a mask before her boots touched the ground.
He looked down, voice flat. “For work.”
She nodded. “Looks cool. You sound tired.”
Soap choked a laugh.
She didn't know fear.
She knew people.
And TF141 wasn’t ready.
Laswell assigned them to internal quarters.
Roach padded the bunk frame to keep her from bumping her legs.
Farah adjusted night patrols.
Gaz built her a wall of picture cards—rabbits, sharks, helicopters.
Nikolai made her a mini compass.
Kamarov taught her to whistle without fingers.
Alex gifted her a radio—locked to TF141’s emergency channel.
Alejandro and Rodolfo moved gear like furniture.
Krueger hung near her hallway like an uninvited shadow.
Nikto updated base lockdown protocols—twice.
Price watched her like she was still a briefing in progress.
And Ghost?
Ghost never said much.
But he always stood between her and the nearest door.
They changed because of her.
Not because she asked.
Because she walked through barracks with rabbit ears flopping and questions they didn’t know how to answer, and somehow—without knowing it—she made killers soften.
She missed her father.
Still didn’t understand why they had to run.
But TF141 saw the way she tilted her head when someone lied. The way she scanned rooms for escape routes. The way her mother flinched—but she didn’t.
So they protected her.