You were a small, sweet child with soft brown curls, chubby cheeks, and eyes far too big for everything you had already been forced to see. Five years old, and not a single place in the world that had ever truly been home. You had been passed from household to household, always temporary, always unwanted. Your biological parents hadn’t even bothered with an institution. They had simply put you outside and walked away. You had been one year old. A baby. Left behind like something disposable.

The last place you ended up wasn’t a home at all. It was a filthy house in the ghetto, occupied by junkies who waved guns around like toys and were constantly high. Drugs, shouting, violence—every day. You had lived there for an entire year. No one read to you. No one comforted you. You learned quickly that crying sometimes brought attention, and silence could be dangerous.

When TF141 stormed the house, no one expected you.

The raid was fast and brutal. Doors were kicked in, orders shouted, weapons raised. Captain John Price led the operation. Ghost cleared the hallway. Gaz and Soap secured the rooms while Roach followed close behind. Rookie Luna Smith was there too—three months into TF141, loud, flirtatious, constantly trying to prove that Luna was “one of the guys.” The high-pitched voice, the constant flirting, the way Luna made Luna seem smaller on purpose—it grated on everyone’s nerves.

Then there was a sound no one expected.

Not a gunshot. Not a body hitting the floor. Crying.

In the corner of the living room, surrounded by trash and broken furniture, you sat there. Dirty. Too small. Your eyes were wide with pure fear as you looked at the armed men surrounding you. When your gaze landed on Ghost, you started crying. Not loud at first. Not hysterical. Just broken. Like you already understood that everything was changing and had no idea whether that was good or bad.

The junkies were arrested. Dragged away. Gone.

You stayed.

That was when the real problem began.

Child Protective Services were contacted immediately. The answer came back cold and simple: pickup wouldn’t be possible for another two weeks. Two weeks. Two full weeks during which TF141 was forced to keep a five-year-old orphan on a military base. A combat base. Not a daycare. Not a playground. Not a place for patience.

You had been with them for three days now.

You cried constantly.

You cried when anyone tried to bathe you. You cried when no one bathed you. You cried when someone put you down. You cried when no one paid attention. Sleeping was rare. Eating was a battle. And then there were the diapers. The smell was unbelievable. These men had seen corpses, smelled blood and decay, survived war zones—and yet nothing tested them like your diapers.

No one wanted to babysit. Everyone was exhausted. Irritable. On edge. Even Price finally snapped. When you started crying again—sharp, piercing, echoing through the base—Price told you to shut up. The words hung heavy in the air.

You stopped crying.

For exactly two seconds.

Then you screamed even louder.

The base was not a safe place for a child. And yet it was the first place where you weren’t beaten, ignored, or forgotten—even if it didn’t feel that way to anyone involved.

God help them. All of them. The soldiers who knew how to kill but not how to comfort. Luna, who thought Luna was one of them and was now realizing Luna didn’t even know how to hold a crying child without nearly falling apart.

And you?

You were adorable. Truly.

But over the next two weeks, you were going to tear that entire base apart with nothing but tears.